


Hyperboloids of Wondrous Light

by apolesen



Category: Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: 1950s, Amnesia, Computers, EDA: The Turing Test, Historical, Homophobia, M/M, Mathematics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor, the amnesiac genius without a name, is formidable as an intellectual companion and desirable as a lover, but the mystery around his identity and his quest to find out who he once was draws in anyone associated to him, until it threatens them with a reality that even Britain’s brightest mind cannot comprehend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaughingGas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingGas/gifts).



> Set during the Earth Arc of the Eighth Doctor Adventures. Spoilers for _The Turing Test_. Warning for sexual situations, angst, 1950s homophobia, depression and suicide.

It was probably his own fault, but he liked to blame Heller. The hatch had burst open as the plane started spinning out of control, and a careless step backwards was all it took. Suddenly the floor under his feet disappeared and below him the fires of Dresden were growing closer. Alan had always imagined that falling from a great height would be a little more straight-forward - a head-first drop where you could see your death getting closer by the moment. Instead, he whirled around, the winds spinning him mercilessly, so that he would only occasionally see the light from the burning city below. Dresden was a glaring beast below which would taunt him, but only when it had the grace to let him watch. The mathematical part of his mind tried to calculate the speed his body was falling, tracking its trajectory to the ground in an attempt to see where he would end up. It would be more painful if he landed on a roof and went through it or rolled off than if he simply hit the ground. Every other single part of his brain was blank, terrified as a rabbit frozen in the headlights.

But what finally hit him was not the ground, but something from above. First he was only aware of the impact, but then he realised that whatever - _who_ ever - had smacked into him was grabbing him, slowing him down...

They hit the ground.

The first moment, there was nothing. Then came darkness and pain, and finally the breath. The air was drawn violently into his lungs, and the first exhalation was a scream, like a child’s, just escaped from the womb. He found himself on his back, and by the sharp shapes digging into his back, Alan thought that he had not landed in the street but on a bombed-out ruin. He had the oddest feeling that something was enclosing him, shielding him from the rest of the world. He was just about to consider whether to move, when he felt something on him and froze. There was something pawing him. Something patted up his legs and his sides, and in his mind’s eye he saw some huge dog scavenging in the ruined city... But then human hands grabbed his fingers and slid up his arms and up his neck. Cold fingers forced his eyes open, and Alan found himself staring not at some hungry beast, but at the sophisticated albeit sooty face of the Doctor.

‘No broken bones, no concussion,’ he said cheerily and sat back on his heels as he started to strap himself out of the parachute. ‘Can’t promise that you won’t be bruised, though.’ Alan tried to sit up, and immediately wished that he could just stay on the heap of rubble where he had landed. On the other hand, neither that was particularly appealing. The sudden realisation that this must have been someone’s house once, and that they may well be lying crushed under them made him sit up. He realised now that what he had imagined as a metaphorical amniotic sac was the silk of the parachute, covering them like a tent and glowing brilliantly red in the fire.

‘You... I...’ Alan stuttered, looking around. ‘How did you...?’

‘Oh, not so hard,’ the Doctor replied casually. ‘A bit of maths and practical experience with parachutes, and it’s easy as pie.’ Alan just stared at him in consternation. The shock of the fall was still tangible and made him feel rather sick, and the Doctor’s casual behaviour seemed undecipherable. He tried to speak a few times, but could not form the words. ‘I think you’re trying to say “thank you”,’ the Doctor said lightly. Still casual as ever, he reached out and put his hand behind his neck.

Alan did not quite understand what he was doing, still confused after the broken fall, and interpreted the grip as merely a friendly gesture. He had never expected the Doctor to kiss him first. It was more than a peck but less than a full-fledged passionate kiss. First he merely pressed their mouths together, then tilted his head and took his lower lip between his. Instinctively, Alan answered it, but it only lasted a moment. Suddenly the Doctor was on his feet again, stark against the glowing silk.

‘Time to move,’ he said, grinning. ‘Before it’s too late.’ He reached out a hand and pulled Alan to his feet. They ended up standing so close to each other that their chests almost touched. He must have swayed, because the Doctor reached out his free hand and steadied him. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. Alan looked at his face and then at their clasped hands.

‘Yes,’ he said, and then felt that “no” was closer to the mark when the Doctor let go of him completely.

‘Good.’ The Doctor lifted the parachute and waved at him to follow. He did, wishing that he might persuade himself that the kiss had been a hallucination brought on by the shock of the fall. It would have been easier if he could dismiss it as fiction, but he knew that that was not the case. As they escaped the secluded cocoon of the parachute, he cursed himself. Dresden was burning around them, and all he was worrying about was why the Doctor had kissed him.

***

Alan awoke with a start. He had dreamt; he had known what about just moments before, but it was fading too quickly for him to be able to grasp it. Instead, he started to become aware of his physical surroundings. A train compartment, empty but for one other passenger, his face stern even while reading. There was a tangible absence beside him.

‘Where’s the Doctor?’ Alan asked, looking around the compartment as if he might have missed him.

‘He’s gone,’ Greene answered, not looking up from the papers he was notating.

‘ _Gone_?’ The spymaster lowered his work, as if appalled at being disturbed.

‘Yes. He left at the first station after the border.’ Alan just stared at him, unwilling to believe him. He remembered the meeting at the Griffin, the risk he had taken in inviting the Doctor to Bletchley Park, the drunken nights in Paris, the reunion on the train from there, their attempts to get into Germany, the events of Dresden, the escape out of Germany, the _kiss_...

Greene did not seem to notice his travelling-companion’s distress.

‘As soon as I get back to London, this will never have happened,’ he said primly. ‘You are to speak of it to no-one.’

‘I know how to keep a secret,’ Alan snorted.

‘Not when it comes to the Doctor, it seems,’ he retorted. Alan ignored him, feeling a little ill at ease that his and the Doctor’s meeting was going to be a non-event in a few days.

‘Did he say something?’

‘Pardon?’ Greene looked up, obviously annoyed at being disturbed again.

‘Did he say anything before he left?’ He hesitated and then added: ‘About me.’

‘Certainly not,’ the man said, sounding rather like an annoyed school-master. Alan sunk back in his seat with a sigh and felt the dull disappointment becoming sharper and making him feel sick. The Doctor had been right beside him - he would just have had to reach out to shake him awake before leaving. Then again, he probably had his reasons not to. Perhaps leaving had been a whim, and he had not had time. Perhaps he had not wanted to be delayed by the goodbye, expecting that Alan would not take it well (which admittedly was true). Perhaps he simply did not care, or could not face the goodbye himself. Still, he had expected...

His hand accidentally touched his pocket, and realised that there was something in it. Suddenly animated, he straightened up again and stuck his hand in it. There was a note there which he could certainly not remember putting there. Aware of Greene noticing that he had found something, Alan pulled up the note and opened it eagerly. He guessed that Greene was still watching as he read it, but he did not pay any attention to him, only to the elegantly shaped letters on the note.

> My dear Alan -  
> Thank you for your help. I hope that our paths will cross again. There is much which has not been discussed yet.  
> Yours

Then the same indecipherable signature as in his other letters. Alan looked at the note for a long while, torn between relief and disappointment. Then he slowly folded it up again and put it in his breast-pocket, careful not to meet Greene’s eye. The content of the note would be his secret, one small piece of evidence that the events of the past months had happened, and a small promise that there was more to come.


	2. Part two

Already when Alan had met the Doctor the first time, the war was ending, so when the Germans surrendered in May, months after that, it felt like something of an anticlimax. Don Bayley, the electrical engineer working on Alan’s project, visited that day, and he, Alan and Robin Gandy, whom Alan had been billeted with, went on a walk in the forest.

‘So, the war is over,’ Don said cheerily. ‘You can tell everything.’

‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ Alan answered and kicked at a stone on the path.

‘What are you moping about, Prof?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he’s been in a mood for ages,’ Robin said, passing Alan, who had stopped to watch the way the sun shone between the foliage. He was only vaguely aware of the other mens’ voices as they stopped a few yards ahead and looked back at him.

‘It’s what hush-hush does to us, I guess.’

‘Is that it, Alan?’

‘No,’ he murmured, still watching the green leaves turning golden in the sunshine, much like auburn hair would glow - _had_ glown that day at St John’s Oxford. He remembered standing in the corridor of that train, laughing with the Doctor, with sudden clarity. His memories were blotting out the real world, until Robin’s voice suddenly roused him.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘What?’ Don asked. There was the unmistakable sound of someone walking through the undergrowth.

‘That’s just someone out walking,’ Alan said.

‘That’s not a pair of boots,’ Robin pointed out. ‘Who would walk in the forest with shoes like that?’

‘What are you expecting - Japanese parachuters?’ he asked, but six years of war had made them wary, and they all fell silent, hearing how the steps drew nearer. Then suddenly a figure broke out from among the trees, and for a split second, Alan thought he had gone mad. Then the Doctor stopped in his strides, smiled widely and said:

‘Oh - hello.’

‘Doctor!’ Alan exclaimed and rushed toward him, staying only a few steps away when he realised that Don and Robin were there. As if suddenly becoming aware of the man facing him, the Doctor shone up.

‘Alan! Fancy seeing you here,’ he said lightly. ‘How are you?’ Fighting the impulse to point just how many months it was since he disappeared in such an abrupt manner, he stuck his hands into his pockets and said:

‘Fine, fine.’ Then he realised that his friends were watching the exchange in a confused but intrigued way. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured and turned to them. ‘Doctor, this is Robin Gandy and Don Bayley, my, eum, colleagues. Robin, Don - this is the Doctor.’

‘Lovely to meet you both,’ the Doctor said, crossing to them and shook their hands eagerly. ‘Always a pleasure.’

‘All mine,’ Robin said, looking a little confused. ‘I don’t think I caught your name - Doctor...?’

‘Just the Doctor,’ he said quickly. ‘I think so, at least.’

‘Oh. Alright,’ Don said and shot Alan a look, as if asking how he had ended up associated to this madman. Ignoring him, he just turned back to the Doctor and said:

‘We were just on our way back. Would you like to join us for dinner?’

‘Oh, wonderful,’ the Doctor said. ‘I was just wondering where to have dinner around here.’

‘Lucky you found us, then,’ Alan just said and as they turned he let his fingers brush against the Doctor’s arm. He did not seem to notice, having struck up a conversation with Robin and Don.

‘So what do you do? I can tell you’re not a mathematician - you work with your hands. Your fingernails are broken.’

‘I’m an electrical engineer,’ Don answered hesitantly.

‘Oh, really!? How wonderful - you must be working with all sorts of exciting things with Alan. I’m a bit of a computer man myself, but not really up to your standard, I’m sure. And you, Mister Gandy? Ah, mathematician you too. Brilliant. Isn’t it wonderful how the war has brought all these bright minds together....?’

On the way back to the cottage, Alan simply listened to the Doctor’s excited voice, not daring to actually look at him. The only time he glanced up, he saw how the evening sun set the Doctor’s locks alight and threw his face into sharp relief, his appearance painfully beautiful.

The Doctor’s prattling did not die down until they reached the cottage. When they entered, Timothy came to see what the sound was, and the Doctor’s face shone up with childish excitement.

‘This must be Timothy,’ he said and fished up the cat, who squeaked disapprovingly, but then arranged himself in the crook of the Doctor’s arm and purred. ‘Such a pretty cat,’ he murmured and patted him, seemingly lost in thought. Robin watched him, a puzzled look in his eye, and then said:

‘Let’s start dinner.’ The Doctor did not seem to notice, but just let Timothy down to the ground and followed him into the living-room. The other three went into the kitchen and started the preparations. None of them spoke for a long time, until Robin pointed out:

‘Funny one, that one.’

‘Where did you pick _him_ up?’ Don said, sudden contempt in his voice - while Robin knew nothing of his house-mate’s inclinations, Don disapproved of the whole concept sharply. Alan just shot him a look, annoyed at his implication, and answered:

‘We’ve worked together.’

‘He seems to know an awful lot,’ Robin pointed out.

‘I’m not allowed to talk about it,’ he just said, knowing that neither of his colleagues would be able to press him if he implied it was about his secret work. Robin just shrugged and pointed out:

‘Well, if he goes on talking like he did on his way here I’m sure he’ll spill the beans anyway.’

Robin had been right. During the dinner, the Doctor was as talkative as before, still with Timothy in his lap.

‘Say, do you know Doctor Judson? Works in Yorkshire?’ he asked. ‘He’s pretty brilliant when it comes to computers too.’ Robin, seemingly uncomfortable at this careless talk, caught Alan’s eye as if to ask what to do about it. Alan shrugged minutely, unwilling to answer the Doctor. Judson had worked at one of the outstations, using a computer he himself had built. They had met only a couple of times, and Alan had never quite taken to him, not liking the way he eyed him, even if he pitied the old man for his dependence on his wheel-chair and that awful nurse who they had had to give the same security clearance as him just so she could be about.

‘He was an Oxford man. Merton, I think,’ Robin answered carefully.

‘“Was”?’ the Doctor repeated.

‘He died in ’43,’ Alan said, and felt a sudden need to look away from the Doctor. He remembered well how they had strengthened security at Bletchley after Judson’s death - no one could explain how come he was found dead without his wheelchair close, and although nothing was said it was assumed that spies were behind it. Alan suddenly wondered how the Doctor could have known him, and had an awful feeling that he was in some way involved the mysterious circumstances surrounding the cryptanalyst’s death. It sounded like the kind of chaos the Doctor would end up in, almost enjoy... ‘How did you know him?’ he asked, trying to sound simply politely interested. The Doctor looked at him blankly, as if just realising.

‘I have no idea,’ he admitted and then smiled. ‘That’s funny. I’m sure I met him at some point. Oh well.’ Then he started telling them about a paper on the axiom of choice he thought of writing. Alan soon lost track of his argument, which was so complicated that it bordered on gibberish but was still on the side where it was brilliant. Instead he found himself unable to look away from him. He only vaguely registered Don’s disapproving looks, but Alan would look away guiltily whenever the Doctor’s bright eyes met his. There was an amused glint in them, which was enticing as well as unsettling. It almost gave him a feeling that he was being played with.

Long after they had finished dinner, the clock chimed ten, and Don stood.

‘I need to go back home,’ he said. ‘I guess we’ll have to start clearing up tomorrow.’

‘I guess so,’ Alan said, remembering suddenly that they were not at war anymore. They had drunk to peace, but it had slipped his mind. ‘How strange.’ He noticed that Robin was looking quizzically at the Doctor.

‘Where are you staying, Doctor?’ he asked.

‘Me? Nowhere,’ the Doctor said innocently, still stroking Timothy, who had fallen asleep in his lap.

‘I guess you could sleep on the couch, if it’s alright with Alan,’ Robin offered. Alan suppressed the urge to shout _no!_ The thought of the Doctor sleeping so close was oddly unsettling. When he did not say anything, Robin nudged him.

‘Yes - fine,’ he mumbled and set about clearing the table. Behind him, he heard the Doctor talking to Timothy and rising, once again wandering into the living-room.

‘Alan?’ Robin asked.

‘What?’ he answered, not turning around but pretending to be intent on the washing-up.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Of course,’ he snorted. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ As if afraid to annoy him more and drive him to the stage where he screamed and slammed doors, Robin left the kitchen swiftly, leaving him to his thoughts. Alan felt the annoyance recede into discomfort, knowing that he was fighting a lost cause against himself and against the Doctor. As soon as possible, he went up to his room and tried to distract himself by reading, but when it proved impossible went to bed.

But as if the inquisitive glance of the Doctor was still on him, he could not settle down, much less fall asleep. He was still awake at midnight, still acutely aware of the Doctor’s presence in the house. At last he sat up and thought it through.

‘What harm can it do?’ he asked himself, and ignoring the warnings from his rational side he threw the covers back and found his slippers and dressing-gown. As soon as he was outside the door, he realised that he did not know what he would do. After briefly considering turning back, he started descending the stairs. Probably all he needed to do was to see the Doctor for a moment - he was probably asleep by now. He would simply look into the living room, and then leave. Perhaps seeing him in such a vulnerable, passive state as sleep would put his mind at rest, and make him feel less of a slave to that strange man.

When he stepped into the living room, he realised how foolish he had been. The Doctor was by no means asleep, even if all the lights were turned off. He was perched on the couch like a cat on the hunt, perfectly still in the darkness. Even through the gloom, he saw how the Doctor’s eyes fixed on him, as if he were the very prey he had been awaiting. He stopped in his stride, mouth open but unable to speak.

‘Long time, no see,’ the Doctor said at last. Alan swallowed nervously.

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve been keeping busy, though,’ he said with a shrug, getting out of his crouch and jumping off the sofa. ‘You’re back here, working away with whatever genius machine you’re building...’ Alan did not answer.

‘You disappeared very suddenly,’ he pointed out instead.

‘Oh, yes, I know,’ the Doctor just said, throwing his hands up helplessly. ‘It’s the kind of thing which happens to me.’

‘Most people would say good-bye face-to-face,’ Alan said coldly. The Doctor stopped and watched him searchingly.

‘What is it, Alan?’ the Doctor asked. ‘What’s bothering you?’

‘You could have told me you were leaving.’

‘It’s not that,’ he whispered with a knowing smile. Alan took a deep breath and decided to speak.

'In Dresden, after I’d fallen out of the plane, and... you saved me...’

‘Yes?’

‘You.... kissed me.’ It turned out forced and a little hushed, embarrassment compromising his voice. The Doctor seemed to think about it, and then nodded.

‘Yes, I did,’ he said brightly, and then frowned and asked: ‘Shouldn’t I have?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that, it’s just...’ He could not quite believe that he had to explain this. ‘It’s just that... with a kiss, you usually imply... things.’

‘What things?’ the Doctor said, tilting his head curiously.

‘Well, that there’s an... interest in that person,’ he started and then interrupted himself. ‘Honestly, Doctor, don’t you know these things?’

‘I must have forgotten,’ he said innocently.

‘Alright,’ Alan said and drew a deep breath to calm himself. While not unfamiliar with uncomfortable discussions about feelings, having several times had the misfortune to fall for the wrong man and then had to explain his actions, the scenario of trying to explain the technicalities of showing romantic interest, and at that in the middle of the night when in his night-clothes, was quite daunting. ‘If you kiss someone, you’re sort of implying you might do it again. It _implies_ that you’re... after other things too.’

‘You mean sex,’ the Doctor filled in, sounding very matter-of-fact about it.

‘Yes, for example,’ he said, relieved that he had finally understood, then feeling rather embarrassed at just how eager he must have sounded. The Doctor’s gaze did not calm him. It had turned strangely searching, as if Alan were some interesting machine that the Doctor tried to figure of the makings of. Still watching him, blue eyes growing increasingly intense, he rose and crossed to him.

‘So if I were to kiss you again...’ he asked quietly, stopping only inches away from him, ‘I would be implying...?’

‘Quite a lot,’ he managed. He was painfully aware of the breath on his face, fearing what might happen and what might not. Despite keeping his eyes fixed on the Doctor’s, he noticed how he licked his lips and then leaned in. The kiss was tentative, but still Alan felt himself growing helpless at the touch of his lips and the hand planted against his jaw, keeping him close. Grabbing the Doctor’s lapels, he deepened the kiss, and the Doctor laughed at his enthusiasm. He tried to count the kisses - two, three, four, five - until they became a blur of lips and tongues and teeth, trying to find the ideal way to merge. Alan’s imagination was running away with him - he wondered if the Doctor’s chest was as smooth as his cheeks, whether there were any stray freckles on his body, whether he would answer him if he said that he loved him...

Suddenly he broke lose, listening.

‘What is it?’ the Doctor asked, but fell silent when Alan placed a finger over his lips.

‘Robin,’ he just whispered and pulled him out of sight from the door. He listened to the footsteps in the stair, which stopped a little way up, as if he was listening. Through the darkness, the Doctor looked at him, blue eyes burning. As if not aware of the danger of discovery, he leaned in and kissed his neck, then wandered along his jawline and kissed his lips again. Alan willed Robin to go away, and the Doctor to not make a sound, but wished above all that he would not stop kissing him. He did not care if Robin saw them - he would not have cared if Churchill had burst into the room - as long as the Doctor did not break the kiss.

The footsteps turned and ascended, vanishing into nothingness. The kiss ended, leaving Alan panting for air while the Doctor just grinned and rested their foreheads together. When he was certain Robin was out of earshot, Alan laughed, and the Doctor laughed with him. He stroked his cheek and played with his hair, as if fascinated.

‘Doctor, look,’ Alan said, swallowed nervously and rested his hand against his chest. ‘You don’t have to sleep on the couch.’ The Doctor smiled and took his hand. He looked at it affectionately for a moment, then sighed.

‘I need to leave,’ he said. ‘The police isn’t particularly happy with me at the moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Just a bit of a misunderstanding,’ the Doctor shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Nothing I’m not used to. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. It’ll clear up.’

‘When will I see you again?’ Alan persisted.

‘Soon, I hope,’ he said, smiling. ‘I haven’t had time to discuss some of the ideas I’ve had since I saw you last.’ He nodded, and hesitated for a moment before kissing him again.The Doctor let him.

‘Do you have everything you need? Clothes, food...?’

‘Yes, that’s alright,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ In silence they walked to the door. ‘Where will you be?’ the Doctor asked, hesitating before opening the door.

‘I think Teddington - in London,’ Alan answered. ‘I could write to you, to let you know...’

‘I’ll find you,’ the Doctor said, straightening his coat. ‘See you.’ With a final smile he slipped out, and as soon as the door closed, Alan rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of him. The only thing he had time to see was the shine of green velvet in the moonlight before the night absorbed it.

***

Boxing Day 1946 was cold. The fact that Alan was dressed only in vest and shorts did not help, and the warmth of the three-mile run he had just finished was starting to wear off. He was jumping from one foot to the other in the hope that it would keep him warm, but it probably only made him look rather idiotic. All he wanted was to put some proper clothes on, but a persistent sports reporter had gotten hold of him and seemed intent to write something about him rather than the race.

‘Do you consider yourself to be a good runner, Dr Turing?’ he asked, scribbling even when he was not speaking. ‘As good a runner as a mathematician?’

‘I only run to keep fit,’ he mumbled.

‘Does your wife encourage your running?’

‘I’m not married,’ he answered; he had taken to looking out over the crowd of people who were dispersing after the race.

‘Any other athletic distinctions?’

‘Well, I rowed at Cambridge.’

‘Got a Blue?’

‘God, no,’ Alan answered, scoffing at the thought.

‘How did it feel to lose that race with only one foot?’

‘I’ve still got both of them,’ he said, quietly enough for the reporter to not quite catch the bad pun. ‘Oh, a pity, I guess, but I don’t run to win anyway.’ It did not feel right to admit that he was actually quite disappointed in himself.

‘So, tell us some more about this Electronic Brain you’re building at the National Physics Laboratory...’

‘It’s called the ACE, Automatic Computing Engine,’ he explained, still jumping up and down.

‘Is that an English design, Dr Turing?’ the reporter asked; he seemed gleeful at the prospect of writing something which was not about sport. Alan felt that it would be nigh impossible to answer that question without breaking the promise of the Official Secrets Act, he said:

‘Oh, it’s all inspired by the Americans. The ENIAC is far superior, a truly brilliant piece of engineering...’ He trailed off, because something had caught his gaze. First he could not tell what was making him stop, and why he was blushing, and then he realised that among the onlookers was a familiar auburn head.

Taking control of himself, he looked at the reporter and asked:

‘Was there anything else? Because I really must be off.’

‘No, thank you, Dr Turing - this’ll make interesting reading for next _Evening News_ ,’ the reporter said, waving his note-pad in the air, and then left to find more lingering runners to pester. Not wasting a moment, Alan headed in the direction of the golden apparition he had seen; he did not mind that he was cold and sweaty and quite unflatteringly dressed. He pushed through the crowd, not even stopping to apologise when he stepped on people’s feet. But his eagerness must have been made him inattentive, because suddenly he walked straight into another man.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, the fault too big to ignore.

‘That’s quite alright, Alan.’ He looked up, and realised who it was.

‘Doctor!’ he exclaimed and stood for quite some time restraining his excitement, but failing to not smile like a madman. Suddenly it seemed like yesterday he had left the cottage in the middle of the night, rather than nineteen months ago.

‘Well done with the race,’ the Doctor said finally.

‘It was awful. To lose by just a foot - what a disgrace,’ he snorted.

‘The winner probably thinks he didn’t really win, so there’s two of you,’ he said and put a hand on his shoulder. The vest left most of his shoulder bare, and the touch of his cold hand was unsettling. Suddenly he remembered their wanton kissing while Robin had been on the stair, how he had not cared and how all there was in the world was the Doctor. Perhaps they could go for tea somewhere and discuss the past year, and then to a room...

‘You’ve turned up at the most inconvenient time, Doctor,’ he said, the happiness of seeing him replaced by the realisation of how short their reunion would be.

‘Why?’ the Doctor said, frowning. For a moment Alan panicked, wondering if he could change it somehow, because he could not bear disappointing the Doctor, but of course there was nothing to do.

‘I’m going to America,’ he said with a helpless shrug. ‘The boat’s leaving this evening.’

‘Business or pleasure?’ the Doctor asked, his voice and smile teasing.

‘Business, of course,’ he said, laughing awkwardly. He was silent for a moment, and then admitted: ‘Pleasure’s here.’

‘Pleasure’s mine,’ the Doctor just answered. Alan had never imagined the man being risqué, but could not help being entertained.

‘Of course it is,’ he said, and they both laughed. The moment of happiness was overshadowed by separation, and the knowledge that when he came back to England, the Doctor might not be possible to find again. When their laughter subsided, Alan sighed, but decided not to fall into melancholy.

‘Let me find my luggage and change into some proper clothes, and then let’s go for tea.’

‘Charming,’ the Doctor said. Alan was just about to go in the direction of the judges where he had left his bags when he turned and gave the Doctor a serious look.

‘You’ll be here when I come back, right?’

‘I’ve certainly got no reason to run,’ the Doctor said. Alan hesitated for a moment, trying to understand how he could distrust a man he loved. It was a question too big to figure out in such a short time; he pushed it aside.

Despite Alan’s worry, the Doctor was still there when he returned, dressed and with his bags in his hands. As they had said they would, they found a teahouse and had tea and shared a chocolate cake which seemed not to have any chocolate in it at all. Alan told the Doctor about his work on the ACE and about the conference at Harvard he was going to. The Doctor seemed to have too much or too little to tell, and thus did not speak much of what he had been doing, but made it clear that he had been reading about ACE as much as he could.

‘I would have liked to see it, of course,’ he commented.

‘Whenever you’re around, just pop by and I’ll give you the tour,’ Alan said, knowing that it would probably not happen. They spoke of rationing, and Alan promised to look for some Darjeeling to bring back from America for the Doctor, who complained of how hard it was to get hold of in Britain. The discussed the recovery after the war, and the Doctor expressed his worry over the Iron Curtain. Then he looked searchingly at Alan and observed:

‘You’re not happy, are you?’

‘I love the work with the ACE,’ he said, avoiding the question.

‘But you’re not happy.’

‘No,’ he sighed. He did not feel like explaining the way he did not feel a proper part of the team, and how he was getting more and more certain that they were not interested in doing anything with his ideas. ‘I’m just lonely, I guess,’ he said. The Doctor placed his hand on his arm.

‘You should seek out company, then,’ he said quietly. ‘No reason to sit around being lonely.’

‘What about you?’ Alan said, looking at his hand - the beautiful skin, the delicate fingers, the blue veins - not daring to take it. He wondered if he had really meant “seeking out company” as he would use the idiom.

‘I’m often alone,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’m always lonely.’

‘Even now?’ Alan asked, feeling his stomach dropping at the thought that the Doctor felt lonely even in his company.

‘Less now than in over a year,’ the Doctor said, a smile in his voice. Alan looked up and met his benign gaze. Feeling ashamed, he realised that there were tears in his eyes. Despite swallowing them in an attempt to control them, his voice was choked when he admitted:

‘I’ve missed you.’ The Doctor smiled a little.

‘You see, Alan,’ he said, his hand slipping from his arm to take his hand. He returned the grip greedily. ‘You’re the closest I have to an equal now.’

‘Me? Your equal? I’m stupid in comparison to you,’ he snorted.

‘I didn’t say you were my equal - only that you were the closest to one I had,’ the Doctor said in such a measured tone that it could not be taken as an insult. Alan had been around the Doctor enough to know that it was simply correct.

‘You’re a proper genius, Doctor. How can you ever have had equals?’

‘I don’t know,’ Doctor admitted and looked down. ‘I can’t remember. I think I used to. But I don’t know what happened to them.’ He was silent for a moment, his spirits visibly low. ‘Did you see the newsreels from the German camps in Poland? The ones Greene talked about?’

‘Yes,’ Alan said, uncomfortably at the memory of the haunting images and Greene’s anger at him for pushing the issue away.

‘They all felt like a bad dream. Like I’d seen it before, or something like it... Or both.’ All Alan pressed his hand harder; the Doctor’s sudden melancholia worried him. ‘I don’t see what I’m doing here, Alan,’ he admitted, something hectic growing in his eyes. ‘I don’t belong here, but I don’t know where else there is. Perhaps there is nowhere... but sometimes I think I remember something - a place, and people, faces... But I don’t know who they are, or if they’re ever real...’ They stared at each other, and then the tense atmosphere was broken by the Doctor’s smile, even if the sadness lingered, not quite overcome.

‘I’ve missed you as well,’ he admitted, and Alan could not help smiling back at the confession, as if it was a reward for his patience. They let go of each other’s hands and finished their tea in half silence. The Doctor followed him half-way to the coach, and when he left, they hazarded a kiss in the dark evening, dry lips meeting almost chastely.

‘I’ll see you soon, I hope,’ Alan said without persuasion.

‘I hope so too,’ the Doctor answered, squeezing his arm and then turning away to disappear into the shadows.


	3. Part three

Alan prided himself with not needing anyone. He had always thought of himself as someone who would bravely bite into the sour apple and endure loneliness with his head held high. This was unfortunately a lie, and not even a very good one. During his undergraduate years, the longing for Chris, the unrequited love of his schooldays, who had been dead for almost half a year when Alan came to King’s, had sent him into despair, and the war years had been exceedingly empty, despite a night shared with a stranger in America and his tentative and ineffectual courting of Joan. Similarly, upon returning to London after his visit to America, the Doctor’s expected absence depressed him. Spring came, the work progressed, the NPL rejected him, Cambridge pined for him. And so the prodigal son returned to King’s, but also the _alma mater_ had changed. Now the dreaming spires were borne up by windows without glass, taken down before the war, and the excitable, naïve youths, discussing Shaw and pacifism and philosophy, were now replaced by veterans who tried to pick up where they had left off. That summer Alan turned thirty-five; he tried to avoid celebrating it. He felt impossibly old, even if the students were not as young as they could have been. One of the only maths undergraduates under twenty-five, Neville, caught his eye, and they would meet for hot chocolate and discussions, which would sometimes turn into other things. He felt himself turning bitter, as when he one evening admitted to Neville, ‘I have had more contact with this bed than with other people.’ Chris still haunted him, and even the mention of blood would make him faint, reminding him of the boy’s gruesome death from tuberculosis. But the Doctor seemed an equally present, albeit newer, ghost, who once even tricked him into the kind of careless talk he was the master of. In early Easter term, in April 1948, he mentioned to Neville that the Poles had been important to the work he had done during the war, and realising his mistake he had made him leave at once and not talked to him since.

He was walking up and down the front court contemplating the damage he had done through that unguarded comment; he was not ready to take up his involvement with Neville again until he was quite certain that the comment had been harmless. He thought that the mention of the Poles was enough to figure out neither the breaking of the Enigma code nor his own involvement in it. Besides, Neville was unlikely to be a Soviet spy. Then again, there was the worry that he was a British spy, and if that was the case, his slip would be reported. That was a terrifying prospect, but then again, how likely was that scenario? Neville was at King’s to study maths, not to spy on fellows. His connexions with the Secret Services was not as many as they had once been, but what he knew made him certain that there were not money to spy on old cryptanalysts. But if Neville would talk to others and spread the information - perhaps someone would figure something out...

He looked up at the sky and then over the lion-mounted lanterns of Hall. It was strange how blind he had grown to the beauty of the place, which would occasionally strike him and make him stop to gaze at the buildings. This was something entirely different than London or Bletchley, he thought and smiled.

And it was then he saw him. As if a wisp of winter fog had lingered and conjured up a ghost from his mind, there he was, his hair set alight in the sun and the velvet of his coat shimmering. Unbidden, Alan’s heart gave a jolt of surprise and delight, and he waved eagerly. The Doctor waved back, but did not transgress onto the lawn. When he did not move, Alan started crossing the grass, having to stop himself from breaking into a run. Still, when he reached him, he could not resist to throw his arms around him, gown flapping around him. The Doctor laughed at his enthusiasm.

‘Hallo, Alan. Long time, eh?’

‘Too long,’ he answered, mouth close to his ear, and then drew back to look at him. ‘I’m glad to see you, Doctor.’

‘Feeling’s mutual. You’re not running away to America any time soon, are you?’ the Doctor asked, giving him a mock-suspicious look. ‘Because that was the last time I saw you, right?’

‘Yes - I mean, no, I’m not going to America. And that was last time we met.’ It seemed strange that he did not remember that, but considering that the Doctor used to claim he had “a memory like a sieve”, he felt he should not blame him.

‘And you? You’re not on the run from the police or something again, are you?’

‘Oh no,’ the Doctor laughed. ‘I just popped in to say hello.’

‘I’ve got a few supervisions today,’ Alan thought aloud. ‘Oh, I’ll cancel them. Come on!’ Grabbing the Doctor by the wrist, he almost dragged him from the front court towards the river. The Doctor looked around him during the walk to Alan’s rooms, something knowing in his smile. He even looked approvingly at the mess of the study, as moved a mass of books and notes onto the desk to clear a chair, where he then left his gown and placed Podgy the teddy-bear to guard it. Finally he found his jacket and a piece of paper; while putting the jacket on, he scribbled a note saying that all supervisions were postponed until Thursday, then changing his mind and crossed out the previous word, changing it to Friday. Knowing it would make the students hate him, he pinned it on the door and then gestured for them to leave the building again.

‘Where are we going?’ the Doctor asked as he hurried down to catch up with him and slid his arm through his.

‘I don’t know,’ Alan said, realising that he did not really have a plan. ‘Let’s get out of College. It’s such a lovely day - no reason to sit inside. We could walk out into the countryside, or even take a punt out.’

‘Let’s take the punt,’ the Doctor answered, looking excited. ‘I haven’t punted for years.’

The river was beautiful at this time of year. The trees which stretched over the water were crowned with young leaves, and the sun-light gave the entire scene a mysterious shine. They took turns to pilot the vessel, and did not speak much. When they passed S:t Cedd’s, the Doctor said:

‘I’m sure I’ve been there at some point. I just can’t remember...’ Then, forgetting his frustration, he let the pole run through his hand until it hit the river-bed and he could push them forward. He had discarded his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, which added a strong streak to his rather delicate handsomeness. Alan also noticed that he had a new waistcoat; it struck him as strange that he had never noticed the Doctor wearing any other clothes than the ones he had worn on their first meeting, except the coat, which had replaced the one left in Dresden.

It had been early afternoon when they had set off, and punting was a quite slow way to travel. When they reached Dead Man’s Corner, treacherous only in that it was particularly deep in a mostly shallow river, they decided to turn around, and when the Chapel was in sight again, it was getting dark. Their attempts at mooring the punt were unsuccessful at first, and in the process Alan almost fell into the water, which caused no alarm, only laughter. The joviality continued as they linked arms and left the river-bank. On the hump of the bridge over the river, the Doctor slipped loose and stopped to look at the scene. Alan paused and joined him, but instead of watching their surroundings, he looked at his profile, lit up in the sunset. Was he imagining it, or did he look older? Was there a hint of grey in his hair? But the semblance of weariness disappeared when he caught his eye and smiled.

‘There are few places like this, you know,’ he said quietly, as if in awe. ‘Unchanged, yet always different. This place will survive hundreds and hundreds of years.’ He looked straight up into the sky and then continued speaking. ‘In a hundred years, the pollution will start taking its toll on the buildings, but then they’ll enclose in glass. Each college will close itself in its own glass dome. They will sparkle in the sun, and in the winter mornings, they will be covered in frost.’ He looked at Alan and smiled. ‘There’ll be a statue of you, of course.’

‘Really, Doctor,’ he said and looked away, blushing.

‘There will be,’ the Doctor insisted and pointed to their left. ‘Right there - looking out over just this view. The students will love it - in the winters they’ll take turns to lend it their scarves.’ Alan laughed.

‘You talk the most wonderful nonsense, Doctor.’ When there was not a response, he looked at him, and found that the Doctor was watching him with a profound look in his eyes.

‘I guess I do,’ he said and looked away, as if embarrassed. ‘I guess it is nonsense.’ Eager to chase away this contemplative mood, Alan took his arm and asked:

‘Would you like to dine at High Table with me?’ The Doctor smiled, reinvigorated.

‘That sounds wonderful,’ he said.

They stopped by Alan’s room so he could collect his square cap and gown and then proceeded to the senior common room. The Doctor looked around the red-walled room until his eyes fell on a portrait of Rupert Brooke which hung over the fireplace.

‘Fancy that, another acquaintance,’ he said cheerily. ‘Not a bad likeness either.’

At that moment, the Provost, Professor Shepherd, entered the common room.

‘Have you brought a friend, Alan? Do introduce us,’ he said pleasantly. For a fraction of a second, Alan panicked, because he had forgotten about the other fellows in his delight at the Doctor’s presence. Then he laughed, just to lighten his own mind, and made the introductions.

More fellows arrived, and soon the Common Room was filled with academics chatting and twirling the stems of the wine-glasses between their fingers. Among the stark black of their gowns the Doctor’s green elegant clothes seemed to give new life to the room. He was talking happily to various fellows, and as Alan listened to his conversation, he realised that not only did the Doctor have an impressing knowledge of mathematics and computer science; there seemed to be no subject where he did not possess expert knowledge. Before dinner, he heard him speak of Byzantine palaeography, the influence of Sandhi rules on the oral transmission of the Rigveda, prime number theory, post-revolution thinkers in Russia and the history of vaccination. Alan stayed at his side throughout, but was seldom spoken to; there was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach which made him feel very young.

It continued when they entered the Hall and they sat down, Alan with Saltmarsh on one side and the Doctor on the other. Saltmarsh, a weedy economic historian, started telling the Doctor excitedly about when he had found some bones on top of the Chapel, probably left from the masons’ meals. As this discovery had been made during the war and it had rapidly become one of Saltmarsh’s favourite stories, Alan had already heard about it on several occasions, and did not join in. Then Dent caught the Doctor’s attention and started discussing Puccini with him. Alan still watched the Doctor, caught by his beauty and his intelligence, bitterly wishing he had something interesting to add to the conversation.

It was not until well through the main course he realised what was wrong. That feeling in the pit of his stomach was a blend of jealousy and affection. The Doctor was stranger than he had ever been, his eccentricity trumping anything seen even in inverted academic circles, but the fellows were all eager to speak to him. He could speak to all of them in the way an equal would, and at the same time, he was polite and lovable. Alan remembered that even Greene - even the military police who had been sent to arrest the Doctor during the war - had seemed rather taken with him. He wished that he could possess such charisma, and that his genius could be turned into charm. If only he could be so engaging, he and the Doctor could simply blot out all those other inquisitive, mediocre minds. They would form their own little world and they would be self-sufficient - no one and nothing would trespass and disturb them, and the Doctor would never need to turn from him. His jealousy towards the Doctor and the other fellows made him feel exceptionally guilty, because it seemed as an antithesis to his love for the man. For a moment he wondered whether his love was fully selfish and only based on his wish to be like him, but his previous train of thought showed that that was not true. It was certainly selfish in that he grudged the Doctor the company of the other fellows, but it was not really self-centered, because it included the Doctor in a way which bordered on obsessive. Glancing at the man beside him, who was gesturing widely and revelling in the discussion, he reminded him that it was not unwarranted. He had a tendency towards obsession, and most often, it had helped him by concentrating on his work. Then there were the occasions when it had not been professional but personal - like with Christopher, or the Doctor. Often he found such obsessions complicated, but the facts themselves were easy. The only fact which truly mattered was that the Doctor was here at last. When the meal was finished and the port had been passed around, Alan felt more at ease, and when the Doctor turned to him and asked, in a low, almost intimate voice, ‘you haven’t told me anything about your own research yet, Alan,’ he felt his heart leap with delight.

They walked closer together when retiring to the common room again, but did not yet speak. When they settled down, the Doctor struck up a conversation about the development of post-war literature with Forster, and Alan had to quench another wave of possessiveness. Across the room, Wilkinson, one of the many King’s fellows who had been at Bletchley Park, caught his eye and inclined his head to indicate the Doctor. By his meaningful look, Alan understood that he was asking if the guest was his lover. He gave a non-committal shrug, and Wilkinson raised his eyebrows. _You don’t know?_ In reply he rolled his eyes and turned to the Doctor.

‘Let’s go,’ he whispered into his ear, and the Doctor nodded and as he said goodbye to Forster - ‘wonderful to meet you, sir - I’m sure I’ll see you again. At some point’ - Alan gave Wilkinson a triumphal look, to which he responded with a theatrical sigh of relief, as if to say, _well, thank God for that._ Then the Doctor touched his arm and they left.

‘You were bored to death, weren’t you?’ the Doctor said with a laugh when they stepped outside.

‘There so many better things we can do with our time, don’t you think?’ he said and smiled; the alcohol was making him brave, its comfortable hum blotting out his usual insecurities. The Doctor looks perplexed for a moment, then laughed again and put his arm around his shoulders. Alan steered him to the vaulted passage and then, shrugging off his arm, kissed him. After a moment of hesitation, he kissed back. Any intimacy Neville or anyone else had provided since that chaste kiss before Alan left for America was forgotten. He felt like a drowning man breaking the surface and gasping for air, and he pressed against him as if he wanted their beings to merge into one. The Doctor let himself be kissed, his hand cupping his cheek awkwardly. Alan did not break the contact until he heard movement behind them. A few yards away stood an undergraduate (thankfully not one of his students or, for that matter, Neville), looking terrified that he had come upon a fellow with a lover in his embrace. Alan glared at him and gestured to him to pass. He clutched his pile of books and hurried past as the Doctor leaned against the pillar they had stopped by.

‘Poor chap,’ he said, but smiled.

‘Perhaps we should...’ Alan started, caressing his hand and nodding in the direction of his rooms.

‘Let’s,’ the Doctor answered, straightened up and walked with him. As if fearing that he might run away, Alan took hold of his arm, and the Doctor’s cold hand was planted on top of his. Still holding onto each other they ascended the stairs and fumbled with the keys. When they entered, the Doctor flopped into one of the armchairs and Alan promptly moved Podgy the bear to beside the fireplace, out of sight, before sitting down beside the Doctor. He was just about to close the gap between them when he spoke.

‘I didn’t know you played.’ He nodded at his violin.

‘Oh, a bit,’ Alan just said and shrugged. ‘Just for fun.’

‘Would you play me something?’ There was something almost worryingly casual about the tone.

‘I don’t really feel like it just now,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps later.’ The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he watched him smile, which felt almost like a blast of galvanic electricity through him. Biting his lip, desperate not to say anything stupid, he reached out and stroked his face. The Doctor watched him with the same mild amusement as earlier. He hesitated, wishing for some kind of response, but when there was none, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together again. The Doctor answered the kiss more readily this time, one hand on his neck and the other on his shoulder. As Alan edged closer, he moved his hand from his face to his shoulder, then his hand, then his knee, then...

It had barely grazed the inside of his thigh when the Doctor suddenly caught it and broke the kiss.

‘No,’ he whispered; his tone was not reprimanding, but strangely tender. Alan moved back a little to see his face better.

‘Why?’

‘It’s just not time yet,’ the Doctor said simply.

‘Not time yet?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘It’s bloody well time.’

‘Alan, I don’t think you understand...’

‘Yes, I think I do,’ he said, unable to keep hurt from his voice as he pulled his hand out of the Doctor’s grip. In vain he tried to catch it again. ‘Why do you keep leading me on, if you have no interest in me?’ he asked accusingly.

‘It’s not like... that.’ The Doctor pushed a lock of hair out of his face and sighed.

‘Then what is it?’ Alan asked, his voice rising in pitch. ‘What on earth could be keeping you from this? It’s been _years_...’ He interrupted himself, knowing that that point could be defeated easy, considering that they had only seen each other twice since Dresden. Instead of arguing with him, the mysterious man sighed again, leaned his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees, and said:

‘I’m just asking you to have patience.’

‘I’ve _had_ patience,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m sick and tired of waiting. Please, just...’ he swallowed, the courage which had possessed him under the arches gone. When he finished the sentence, it turned out so silent he did not know if it was hearable. ‘Please come to bed with me.’

‘Next time,’ the Doctor said. ‘Next year, in Manchester.’ Alan looked up, sharply.

‘How did you know I’ve been offered a place at Manchester?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t mentioned that...’ Suddenly he remembered the old fear of the Doctor’s loyalties, or at least his connexions. All the Doctor said, however, was:

‘Well, that’s where you’ll be, won’t you?’

‘I guess so,’ Alan said, not satisfied with this answer at all. His spirits which had been so light only minutes ago had plunged, and he felt a black mood coming on. He felt aware of all his imperfections, all the little things which might make the Doctor find him unattractive, and all the mistakes he had made, which he might have found out in some way or other... His thoughts must have been visible, because the Doctor whispered his name and reached for him. He shook his head and looked away. Now the man’s beauty seemed to taunt him.

‘It’s not what you think,’ the Doctor said softly. ‘It’s not really that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t.’ He had not thought of that - perhaps there was such a simple explanation to it - but then he remembered the kiss under the arches, and despite the Doctor’s awkwardness, he was certainly not impotent. ‘Things have to happen at their appointed time.’

Alan looked at him, struck by how odd everything he said was. The Doctor seldom made sense, but there was something distant, oddly cold about him... He should have noticed it already when the Doctor had not trespassed onto the lawn earlier that afternoon.

‘You’ve changed, Doctor.’

The Doctor smiled mirthlessly, and then said, as if confiding a secret:

‘I’ll change back.’

‘I don’t see...’ Alan’s protest was stopped by the Doctor reaching out and touching his face.

‘I can’t explain,’ he whispered. ‘Please, just take my word for it. Trust me.’ With the Doctor, it was not an easy thing to do, but still he pressed on. ‘I’m not willfully holding anything from you, Alan.’

‘Really?’ he asked and looked him in the eye. There was no way of telling if that was a lie or not. He did not answer, only leaned in and kissed him. Alan cursed himself at how easily he gave in and accepted what he had said, trusting him against his better judgement. It did not change the sweetness of that kiss, and the feeling that the Doctor was desperately trying to make it up to him. His apprehension did not go away when the kiss broke, and just to have something to do he left his seat and picked up Podgy from the floor, putting him on the table instead.

‘I understand, Alan, I really do, and I’m sorry to disappoint you...‘ Alan did not want to hear the Doctor’s excuses, and did not want to be given any more reason to be annoyed at him.

‘I’ve still got the Darjeeling I got you from America,’ he said instead, cutting him off. That made the Doctor smile.

‘So you got hold of it?’

‘You can’t believe how hard it is to get hold of good tea in America,’ he snorted.

‘I’m afraid I do,’ the Doctor answered with a shrug. ‘Give it to me next time.’

‘I’ll make sure to do that,’ Alan promised. The mood had lightened, and he returned to the armchair again. The Doctor shifted so that their knees touched. He reached out to brush his hair out of his forehead and whispered:

‘Tell me about your research.’ Alan shrugged.

‘It’s not really going anywhere,’ he admitted. ‘It’s odd - I can’t seem to work here. This place has changed.’

‘This place always stays the same,’ the Doctor said.

‘Not this time,’ Alan sighed. ‘This war really remoulded us all, didn’t it?’ The Doctor’s smile suddenly disappeared, and instead he winced, as if from sudden pain, and brought his hand to his forehead. ‘Are you alright, Doctor?’ he asked worriedly. The other man only waved his free hand as if to show that there was no cause for concern. Alan rose and fetched a glass of water, and upon returning, found the Doctor still with his eyes closed and his fingers pressed to his temples. When he closed his hand around the glass, the Doctor smiled gratefully and sipped the water before bringing the cool glass to his forehead. Soon enough he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear them.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, sounding a little distant. ‘That mention of war, and remoulding... it stirred something. Don’t know why. Sorry to be a bother.’

‘Please, you’re not - not at all,’ Alan said quickly, feeling awkward where he perched on the edge of his arm-chair. ‘Eum, what’s... wrong?’

‘Nothing at all,’ the Doctor said casually and removed the glass from his forehead and took another sip of the water. ‘It’s just...’ He gestured at his head.

‘Migraines?’

‘Yes, exactly,’ he said. There was still something in his tone which sounded preoccupied. Alan reflected that it seemed wrong, not like the prelude to an attack and certainly not like an attack itself, remembering once when they had lost the Naval code, and he had been stuck in his room for two days with his head pounding. The Doctor had only seemed to be in pain for a minute or so, and even if he seemed a bit disorientated, he was certainly recovering rapidly. Something in his tone of voice and his quick affirmation of his suggestion made him skeptical. He was too tired and had had too much disappointment tonight to feel affronted at the untruth; it rather made him worried for might be the actual reason. Perhaps it was connected to his amnesia - perhaps it was not physical pain, but something else...

‘I should get out of your hair,’ the Doctor said suddenly and rose. ‘Thank you for the water.’ Alan rose as well, meaning to say, _don’t go_ , but instead said:

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s getting late,’ he said with a shrug and patted his shoulder. ‘I should be off. Remember the Darjeeling next time, eh?’

‘Of course,’ Alan said and smiled weakly. The Doctor squeezed his arm, winked and was out of the door.

Alan stood frozen, listening to his descending footsteps. Then he could not hear them anymore, as the Doctor left the staircase and went into the courtyard. That made him snap into attention, and he ran out of the room and down the stairs. He would tell him not to go yet - he loved him and he didn’t want him to be unwell and he didn’t think he was a nuisance and he was not hurt at being rejected... The court was completely empty, so he continued to the back lawn, the way where the Doctor had to pass to get out, but he was not to be seen. The Doctor was gone, as if he had disappeared into thin air.


	4. Part four

The summer passed at startling speed, and Alan once again left, now for Manchester. He was used to living out of a suitcase, and moving from place to place had become almost second nature to him. There was something refreshingly mundane about the city, which was at once gritty and impressive. Cambridge had felt worn, its spires drying husks of ancient giants, while this was a new world, born screaming and alive out of the bloody war. He decided not to dwell on the past, but shed former loves and worries. He let the project on the Mark 1, the electronic computer the university was building, consume him, but a little after new year, he found miss Popplewell, his fluttery secretary, wide-eyed and worried as he came back for lunch.

‘Doctor Turing - sir,’ she said, jumping from behind her desk in a way which made him worry that she had accidentally thrown away his most recent sketches. ‘There’s a gentleman in your office. I told him you were out, but he just marched straight in, he didn’t even give a name...’ She looked like she was about to pop with nervous excitement. Alan waved to silence her.

‘Thank you, miss Popplewell. I’ll deal with it,’ he said instead and entered his office.

He had not thought that there was any immediate danger in the scenario his secretary had described; it did not sound like something a thief would do. He rather assumed it was someone who would not be daunted by a twenty-year old girl with watery eyes, which did not really narrow it down. What had seemed the most likely scenario was that it was someone from GHCQ who had been sent to call him to Cheltenham for some urgent undertaking. It seemed so plausible that he could imagine the Secret Service man pacing up and down, waiting for his return. Therefore, he was surprised when he found the intruder sat perched on his desk, green coat thrown over the chair and legs crossed, reading through a set of Alan’s notes. Alan waited for a moment for him to notice that he had entered, and, when he did not, said:

‘Doctor?’ The intruder looked up and smiled widely when he caught sight of him.

‘Hello, Alan,’ he said, jumped off the desk and went to greet him, hand outstretched. He accepted it warmly.

‘Let yourself in, did you?’ Alan asked and shrugged off his coat.

‘I’ve kept myself busy,’ he said, waving the notes.

‘Those aren’t done.’

‘They’re brilliant,’ the Doctor said and started leafing through them again. ‘Absolutely beautiful. This...’ He gestured at the papers. ‘This is genius.’

‘Do you think so?’ Alan murmured as he hung up his coat, and then he realised what the Doctor had said. ‘Really?’ he said, looking at him. He had expected to find that the Doctor would tell him that he was just joking, but his face was sincere.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. Alan exhaled and turned to face him properly. It truly meant something when it was the Doctor who said it.

‘Thank you,’ he said emphatically.

‘Is there more?’ the Doctor asked. ‘What about the technical side? Have you built anything yet?’

‘There’s the Baby - that’s the prototype,’ he said. ‘And there are some plans. Would you like to see them?’ He stopped, realising how desperate to please he must sound. It made him feel diffident as a school-boy, and it must have shown, because the Doctor laughed outright and crossed to him, taking both his hands in his.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything.’ Neither of them moved, and something in the moment was too solemn even to break for a kiss. ‘It’s been far too long,’ said the Doctor finally. ‘I’m very glad to see you again.’ Alan instinctively wanted to disprove it, because how could he possibly mean that, but then decided to believe him, and stuttered:

‘I’ve... Yes. It’s been too long.’

‘Let’s make up for it,’ the Doctor said and smiled. Alan thought of what he had said last time - _next time, in Manchester_ \- which had seemed oddly prophetic at the time, but now here they were. Suddenly he was very aware of how close they stood and how the Doctor’s cool breath played over his face. Feeling uneasy, he drew away and crossed to the filing cabinet to retrieve the plans for the computer. The Doctor sat down cross-legged on the floor, and accepted the file with a smile. Alan sat down beside him and watched how he spread it out to study the proposed design. When he had looked through it and nodded in approval, fingers tracing the sketchy lines of the plans, Alan got out another file, and so the afternoon passed. They sat side by side on the floor surrounded by the working notes on the Mark I. Sometimes the Doctor would ask him to explain some particular aspect of the machine, which Alan did, but not without feeling self-conscious; he had a haunting feeling that the Doctor was testing him. He considered briefly that perhaps he asked simply because he enjoyed hearing him explain, but he did not dare flatter himself with such a thought. Miss Popplewell brought them tea and stared at the dapper eccentric and the scruffy academic sitting on the office floor. Alan could not help but smile at her consternation, and found it quite entertaining that she would probably be terrified to know that discussing computers was not all they were to do. He watched the Doctor as he held up a particularly confused plan to the light to study it. He traced the pale blue of his throat, the fit of the waistcoat over his shoulders and the shape of his thighs. Then he mentally slapped himself. It felt unworthy to watch him like that when they were discussing his work - especially when the Doctor was so eager to hear of it. In fact, he was asking a question right now, which seemed to be on the use of valves. He decided to concentrate on the matter at hand and not be distracted by the strange things the Doctor had said last time they met. He knew that he had the will-power not to let his mind wander, so he might as well use it. Talking shop was neutral ground, and still something they both enjoyed. _Safety in numbers,_ Alan thought and smiled at the pun.

Their exploration of the notes on the Mark I was cut short when there was a knock on the door and Miss Popplewell stepped in, hat and coat in hand.

‘Doctor Turing, I, eum, thought I’d leave now.’

‘Leave?’ Alan asked in surprise, ready to rebuke her.

‘It is past seven, sir,’ she said.

‘Really?’ He fumbled for his wrist, and realised that he had forgotten his watch. He looked to the Doctor for help, who just shrugged and held up his pocket-watch. It took Alan a moment to realise what was wrong with it; even if it ticked, it did not have any hands. ‘Well,’ he sighed. ‘We’ll have to take your word for it, Miss Popplewell. Go home.’ He did not wait to see if she obeyed, but turned to the Doctor instead. ‘Past seven,’ he repeated unbelievingly. The Doctor grinned.

‘And here we are discussing electronics, with not a thought of dinner,’ he said. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Alan got to his feet.

‘Enough of work,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out.’ Careful not to step on the papers, he crossed to where his coat and hat hung. ‘I’ll refile in the morning,’ he said as he watched the Doctor’s progress over the paper-covered floor. As they left the office, the Doctor looked at him searchingly and then asked:

‘Is that the same hat?’ Alan looked at him, not quite understanding what he said, but then he realised that his smile was one of recognition, and he realised that it was indeed the hat that had been tied to the handle of his bike at their first meeting.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking at it before putting it on. ‘It seems an age ago, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, it is,’ the Doctor said lightly. They fell silent, and Alan pondered all the ways it was like yesterday. It was only five years ago - perhaps it was a sign of age that it did not sound very long. He glanced over at the Doctor, who also seemed lost in thought. Did it seem both as close and as far away to him as well? He realised suddenly that he did not know how old the Doctor was. When he first met him, he had assumed that he was a few years his senior, but even that was only a guess. His looks were ageless, and with a little good-will, he could be younger than him, or for that matter much older. The way he acted shifted too, from innocent child to disillusioned old man. And then again, it was impossible to tell.

Laconically Alan concluded that he would probably be happier if he stopped thinking so much. He envied people who did not overcomplicate things, but could only be. Perhaps for once, he should try to seize the day and not sublimate what he felt into equations and tables and science.

So when the Doctor put his arm through his and asked, ‘where are we going?’ he simply pointed at random. Soon enough they found a restaurant which caught the Doctor’s fancy. From the outside it looked quite costly, but considering that they were let in they could not have a dress-code. The low ceiling and the careful lighting reminded him of the cafés in Paris, but it was cleaner and the wine seemed much better. The smoky atmosphere made him comfortably giddy, and already when the waiter filled their glasses, he found he could only stare at the Doctor, hair shining in the candle-light. When the waiter had left, the Doctor took his glass and raised it. Alan mirrored him.

‘To what are we drinking?’ Alan asked. The Doctor thought for a moment, and then said:

‘To many happy meetings.’ He smiled.

‘Yes.’ The crystal rung softly when the glasses touched and eyes met. When the Doctor put down his glass after drinking, Alan thought his gaze changed a little, for a moment darkening seductively. The next moment it was gone, his face returned to a content but otherwise rather unaffected smile.

‘Where have you been since we last met?’ Alan asked.

‘Here and there,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I went to Asia for a bit. Tibet, to be precise. I’ve been fascinated by the teachings of some of their thinkers.’ He studied the wine in his glass, pursing his lips. ‘I thought it might help me.’

‘Did it?’ Alan asked tentatively. The Doctor shrugged.

‘I got caught up in other things. Political coups and such things, you see.’

‘Oh,’ he answered, not knowing how to comment on his casual tone of voice.

‘And after that I was in Greece.’ The only way to react to that, however, was alarm.

‘There’s a civil war going on in Greece!’

‘Well, yes,’ the Doctor said, as if it did not bother him very much. ‘Negligible, most of the time. When it wasn’t... well, I could help out.’ Alan bit his lip, and then leaned against the table to come closer.

‘Can I ask you something, Doctor?’

‘Anything,’ the Doctor said lightly, smiling and taking a sip of wine.

‘About danger,’ he explained. ‘Do you seek it out?’ The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

‘Does it seem that way?’

‘Well, I...’ He measured his words, and then explained: ‘I get the feeling that you do. That you enjoy it.’

‘People usually enjoy a bit of adventure,’ the Doctor said off-handedly.

‘This isn’t adventure,’ Alan insisted. ‘This is laughing death in the face.’ Now the other man looked at him properly, as if he understood that he would not let the question go.

‘Things tend to happen where I am, that’s all,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I can deal with trouble, so I might as well make the best of it when it happens. But I don’t seek it out.’

‘I have a hard time believing what you’re after is a quite life, though,’ Alan answered. ‘A desk job, a wife and two children in a decent school doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d do.’

‘Is that what you think the alternative is?’ the Doctor asked, leaning forward too, looking him in the eyes searchingly. ‘Is that a life you would like?’

‘No,’ Alan admitted. ‘But perhaps it’s a better life.’

‘Why?’ the Doctor persisted. He shrugged.

‘I guess dullness can be appealing - to people who aren’t as adventurous as you,’ he explained. ‘It gives stability.’

‘Have you ever considered it?’ Alan nodded and sighed.

‘There was a girl at BP - Joan. A brilliant mathematician.’ He smiled slightly at the memory. ‘We were great friends, so we decided to give it a go. I gave her a ring and everything.’

‘But it didn’t work out?’ the Doctor said softly. His voice sounded almost uncharacteristically compassionate.

‘It just couldn’t happen,’ he sighed. ‘It was my fault - I should have known from the start that it was a stupid idea.’ He considered it, and then explained: ‘It just felt so petty, having to end it because of sex. I did love her, only not like that. I simply couldn’t. I thought at first that I could just disregard it - she was so clever and kind, and I thought that perhaps that was enough, but...’ He sighed and looked up. ‘Does any of this make any sense?’ The Doctor nodded. Alan looked away again and shook his head at the story he was telling. There was something odd about confiding in the Doctor; he tended not to listen silently like this, but be the one to talk, and Alan was not used to letting things from different parts of his life mix so freely. Joan was a part of the secret world of Bletchley, his lovers part of his ordinary life. The Doctor breaching the gap between the two spheres, defying even that boundary.

‘Well,’ he said and took a sip of wine. ‘It’s all for the best. I wouldn’t want to marry.’ But then he confessed: ‘I can’t deny that I sometimes regret that it never happened, despite everything. But it’s better to be alone.’

‘Alone?’ the Doctor echoed, tilting his head.

‘Well, perhaps “unattached” is a better word,’ Alan said. ‘It’s different with men, don’t you find? More straight-forward. It’s never about responsibility.’ The Doctor seemed to consider it.

‘Is anything truly without responsibilities?’ he asked. ‘There’s always something.’ Then he took to reading the menu and twirling the wine-glass’ stem between his fingers. Alan watched him, thinking it through. He was right - there was always some promise to honour. Returned pleasure or tenderness. Silence about what had transpired. Occasionally, an exchange of money, a gift or a payment. Some demanded fidelity while others demanded the direct opposite, taking such a thing as a sign of possessiveness. There were no rules for it, but as the Doctor had said, there was always something. What Joan would have craved - what would had been her right to crave - were far larger; economic security, company, fidelity, sex. _Is anything truly without responsibilities?_ Yes, despite everything, some things - some people - were. The man in front of him was a shining example of it himself - by virtue of his amnesia, he had nothing which bound him. If he had ever had a wife or a family or a long-standing lover, a home and a job and all those things that defined and pinned down a person, they were all gone now. He was freed from whatever bonds had been laid on him. All that mattered were his own whims and decisions of where to go and who to see next. Suddenly it struck Alan how fantastic it was that of all the people, and of all the countries and cities and restaurants in the world, the Doctor was at this one with him. Perhaps he was singled out in some way after all.

When the Doctor looked up from the menu, Alan smiled at him, surrendering to the way his heart leapt when his bright eyes met his.

‘This is preferable,’ he said. ‘Freedom.’ The Doctor smiled, as if he had known that that would be his answer, in the same way that he had known that Alan would accompany him to Dresden.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Freedom of thought. And of other things too.’ Alan felt a hand on his knee. He moved his foot to touch his in response and looked him in the eye. The Doctor grinned, as if in approval. His hand retreated, and he waved at the waiter. Alan still smiled, feeling suddenly dizzy with anticipation.

They spoke of lighthearted things over their meal, letting the conversation meander from subject to subject. When the Doctor paid and they left the restaurant, Alan was feeling slightly drunk, and the blush on the Doctor’s cheeks and the brightness of his eyes made it look like he was in a similar state. Not speaking, they smiled at each other and linked arms. It was late, and the murky lights still left much of the streets in darkness. It seemed to enclose them and push them together, making their shoulders brush and hands touch. They walked in comfortable silence, occasionally sharing a glance.

Finally they reached the house where Alan had his room. They unlinked their arms and turned to face each other. It felt like they were merely enacting a goodbye which both of them knew would not happen.

‘So...’ Alan said, suddenly feeling apprehensive. ‘Night-cap?’ The Doctor grinned and nodded. A little anxiously, he reached out a hand toward him, and watched in fascination when the Doctor actually slid his fingers into his grip. He lead him up the steps and, gesturing to the Doctor to be silent, for fear of alerting the landlord, ascended the stairs with him. They moved slowly, careful not to make a sound, but as they climbed the last few steps, the Doctor started tracing circles on the back of his hand. When Alan released the grip to unlock his door, he leaned in and kissed his jawline.

‘Doctor,’ he whispered reproachfully, but it did not sound particularly heartfelt. Still the man drew back, chuckling lightly, and let him open the door. When it was closed behind them, there was no need to whisper anymore. ‘Not much place to sit, but still,’ he explained and crossed to the dressing table. ‘Just sit anywhere you like.’ He fished up a bottle of scotch and two glasses and poured the liquor, aware of the Doctor shuffling around and, by the sound of it, kicking his shoes off. He realised that he should do the same, because if what seemed to be about to happen really was about to happen, he would not want to be wearing his shoes when it did. He managed to toe them off without spilling the scotch and, stepping out of them, turned to give the Doctor his glass.

To Alan’s surprise, he was not seated, as he had expected, but was reclining on the bed. He was still fully dressed, except for his coat, which was thrown over the chair, but there was something suggestive in the way he lay, leaning back on his elbows with his legs neatly crossed. As if amused at Alan’s stare, he tilted his head and smiled innocently. Shaking himself, he crossed to the bed and perched awkwardly on the bedside.

'Here,’ he said and held out one of the glasses. The Doctor sat up and accepted it. Even as he sipped it, he watched him unblinkingly. A little too forcefully, Alan put down his glass on the desk nearby and turned back. The Doctor did not put down his glass, but held it so that his hand covered it and swilled it casually. There was something measuring in his glance, as if asking if he really had it in him. Alan had not quite expected it to be like this; he had assumed that the Doctor would take the lead, but even if he was certainly in charge of the situation, he was waiting for Alan to act.

Deciding that he needed to start somewhere, he reached out and took out the pin in the Doctor’s cravat. Eyes on the silk between his fingers, rather than the face above it, he undid the knot and button in the collar. Their eyes met for a moment, and he realised how heavy his breathing already was. The bare neck looked oddly vulnerable, and when he traced the adam’s apple and the arteries with his fingers, his touch was overly light. Once again they looked at each other, and this time neither looked away. Alan shifted and climbed onto the bed, sitting down in front of him. It seemed that the Doctor had made the estimation that he was not about to do anything more, so he was unbuttoning his own shirt down to where the waistcoat trapped it. Something coaxing entered his eyes, and Alan glanced down and drew his hand over his chest. The skin was smooth and pale, and he was rather skinnier than he had expected. When Alan flattened his hand against his ribcage, he could feel his heart beat. It was so rapid that it felt like a constant tremble. He sucked in breath when he thought of that the Doctor’s heart had sped up so much from just this. They looked at each other once again, the Doctor expectantly, Alan anxiously.

Their lips locked so suddenly that it was as if they were rushed together. The touch of their mouths ignited them and spurred them into action. Their tongues met as the Doctor fumbled with the buttons of Alan’s shirt. When he had opened the first few, Alan broke the kiss and pulled it over his head. As soon as he had thrown it onto the floor, the Doctor grabbed his head and pushed their mouths together again with such force that he pulled him down over him. Together they struggled with the buttons of the waistcoat and when it was done, they moved in unison to take it off. The pocket-watch clanged against the floor where it fell. As soon as the Doctor’s shirt had followed the waistcoat, they fell back again, bare chests touching and hands stroking naked skin. The Doctor shifted his weight and rolled them over so that he was on his knees and elbows above him. Alan tangled his fingers in those heavy locks, as if he were afraid he would draw away. He kept his grip even when they broke the kiss to catch their breaths, although he thought that he seemed much more out of breath than the Doctor, who nipped on his neck and combed his fingers through the hair on his chest. Then he was kissing him again, and Alan kissed back eagerly, even if his lips felt sore and chipped. The physicality was oddly liberating. For once they were not primarily scientists and thinkers, but only bodies, and for once it was sufficient.

Besides, the Doctor stripped him quite effectively of higher mental faculties, and matters were not made better by that he was working the string in his trousers loose. Despite the precarious belt, his fingers were quick, and sitting back on his heels, he grabbed the waist and pulled, stripping him of trousers and underwear and socks in one swift motion. Alan sat up to undo his trouser buttons, hands fumbling as the Doctor trailed his fingers down his back and up his thigh. When he finally got them open and pulled them down, he was only marginally surprised not to find a second layer of clothing but nakedness. The Doctor interrupted his scrutiny with a kiss and they sunk back down again, as he himself got rid of his trousers. He kept his high socks and garters on; they would have taken too much time to remove. They were done with undressing and casual fondling.

Just when the Doctor touched him first, Alan felt a flare of panic, wondering if all this was a very bad idea. Perhaps it would cheapen their connexion, or make the Doctor’s hold on him unbreakable. But it was too late to stop it now - it had been too late since the first time they had kissed, perhaps since their first meeting - and the Doctor’s hand drove away the worry and any other coherent thoughts he might have held. He clung to him, hand on his hand, at once desperate to keep the sensation and to drive it to its extreme. It was complete surrender. It did not last very long; it felt as if his very existence was growing more and more tense, until he dissolved into nothingness for a moment - a solved equation collapsing onto itself - before being rushed into reality again. Unlike so many times before, the body beside his was real, and it was truly the Doctor’s. As he forced his eyes open, he noticed the Doctor watching him in fascination, a half-smile on his face, as he rather absentmindedly was drying his hand on a handkerchief. Smiling at this action which seemed so out of place, Alan took the handkerchief from him and threw it on the floor as well before kissing him and rolling on top of him. When he broke the kiss and looked down on him, the gaze which answered his looked oddly innocent.

‘Doctor,’ he whispered and dipped down to lick his collar-bones, which stood in sharp relief under his skin. The Doctor started running his hands over him, even attempted to stroke him again, but he took away his hand, showing that it was his turn. First he kissed his way down over his body, admiring how delicacy and strength mixed in it, and briefly took him in his mouth, at which he writhed and gave a small snort of surprise. Heeding the reaction, he returned to his pose over his lover, supporting himself with one hand and touching him with the other. The Doctor’s face became a fascinating mosaic of emotion, which played unadulterated over his features. There was certainly pleasure, but there was also a degree of surprise and diffidence (or so Alan thought). It was not the face of a virgin - earlier he had known exactly what he had been doing - but possibly of inexperience. As he continued to touch him, his face stiffened, and Alan realised that he was trying to control it, but whether in order to keep the sensation longer or because of fear of its end he could not tell. He wanted to tell him not to fight it, but could not find a way to say it without sounding patronizing, so he leaned down and kissed him instead. He reciprocated, wrapping his arms around his neck, but there was a tenseness in his jaw still. The Doctor only let go of him enough for him to draw back a few inches, so he stayed precariously perched over him. Finally the tautness began to disappear. It was like watching tectonic plates starting to shift before an earth-quake, as his face changed and then contorted into a silent scream as his eyes rolled in his skull and his body convulsed. His arms closed hard around his neck, trapping him close as his body shook. Then suddenly he went limp and his breath hissed in Alan’s ear. Drawing back a little, he looked the Doctor in the face. He was gasping for breath, his narrow chest heaving. He looked half bewildered and half ecstatic.

‘You alright?’ Alan asked weakly, as if he were the one catching his breath. The Doctor swallowed and said, as if baffled:

‘I’d forgot how that felt.’

‘Not bad?’ He grinned, once again himself, and answered:

‘Not at all.’ As if to show that that was truly the case, he reached up and cupped his cheek. First he merely drew his thumb over it, then he drew him closer. They kissed lazily, content in the post-coital equilibrium. When they drew apart, the Doctor’s hand remained against his face. Something in his earnest gaze unsettled Alan, and he was surprised when he said: ‘I think you’re stunning.’ He swallowed and stuttered something he was not certain what it was supposed to be at first, but which then came out as:

‘Wh-wh-what? Surely you don’t mean...’

‘Of course I do,’ he said and chuckled as he drew his fingers through his hair. ‘With a mind like that, how could you be anything else?’ Alan felt himself blush, but did not look away. Then he concluded:

‘I think that climax scrambled your head a bit.’ The Doctor grinned enthusiastically.

‘In the very best way,’ he answered. Alan laughed, and the Doctor laughed with him. He drew him into an embrace and they lay there laughing for so long that Alan could not quite remember what was so funny when they finally calmed down. Wine and sex started taking their toll, and he began to drift off, curled up against the Doctor’s cool body. At some point - he could not tell if it was when he was falling asleep or later in the night, making him wake - the Doctor disentangled himself and left the bed. Alan muttered and tried to draw him back down again, but he escaped his grip, kissing his forehead in parting.

When he woke up, the Doctor was not there. Sunshine was streaming into the room, and he had a feeling that he had overslept. Rubbing his eyes he turned on his side to check the alarm-clock on the bedside table. He had expected the white face of the clock to greet him, but he found it obscured, and what caught his eye instead made him fall back in bed, laughing like a man released from all his worries. Over the alarm clock hung a grey silk cravat.

***

As Alan had expected, the Doctor turned up soon again, or what was “soon” for him. He had grown used only to see the man once a year or less, so when Miss Popplewell showed him into the office only three weeks later, it felt like he had seen him only yesterday. The Doctor, collar open as if he were a Romantic poet, did not say anything, only smiled a smile which Alan answered bashfully. When the door closed behind the secretary, he left his chair and crossed to the Doctor. By the Doctor’s amused look, he could tell that it was obvious how happy he was to see him. He could not put it into words, but just took his cravat from his pocket and put it around the Doctor’s neck. It had been left as a token, he knew. Alan had been certain he had his reasons to leave, and in a way he had been rather relieved by it. Smuggling a lover out of the house would be difficult in the daytime, and he was glad not to have to face the potential embarrassment of the following morning. The cravat had been enough of a promise for him.

‘Have you been carrying it around with you?’ the Doctor asked and straightened the cravat.

‘Well, I didn’t know when you were turning up again, did I?’ he answered, and was given a broad smile in acknowledgement of the fact. ‘So...’ Alan said, weighing from one foot to the other. ‘What gives me the honour?’

‘I’ve got something I’d like to show you,’ the Doctor said, his voice frank. Alan still hesitated. The last time he had said he had something to show him, it had ended with the Doctor throwing a fit over an empty blue wardrobe. He must have noticed his uncertainty, because he shrugged a little and said: ‘Unless you’re busy...’

‘No, no, not at all,’ Alan said quickly, barely caring that what the Doctor was doing was tantamount to emotional blackmail. ‘I’m not getting anything done anyway. Let’s...’ He took his coat and they left the office. Well in the corridor, the Doctor took his hand and set off at a run, as if whatever it was could not wait. They both laughed as they rushed towards the stairs, the outside world itself a waiting adventure. A passing student stopped and stared at the mismatched pair of overgrown boys, running hand in hand. Alan noticed how the Doctor winked at the young man and laughed at his increased outrage.

It was a glorious February day, and there was promise of spring in the air. Even if they let go of each other when the left the department, they walked close, shoulder touching shoulder. But the further they walked, the more worried Alan became, because the streets the Doctor was leading him down were growing more cramped and filthy with every step, and over their heads towered derelict buildings with boarded up windows and caved-in roofs. The streets were mostly empty, but the few people they saw, an assortment of hour workers, petty thieves and girls on the game, were as filthy as the streets themselves.

‘Are you certain about this, Doctor?’ Alan asked as a particularly brutish-looking man on the other side of the street watched them in contempt. He was trying very hard not to look in his direction, but he could not stop himself from glancing worriedly over the street.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ the Doctor said lightly.

‘Have you any idea what kind of place this is?’ he said hectically, not making any attempt to hide his mounting panic. He thought that it was not at all implausible that they would either be solicited or beaten up, for looking well-off or queer.

‘Have some faith, my dear,’ the Doctor just said, but, as if making a concession to his worry, took him by the arm and quickened their pace. They did not walk very far before the Doctor stopped and looked up. ‘Here we are.’ Alan followed his gaze, and surveyed the house they had stayed outside as the Doctor mounted the steps and worked with the lock. The building was as derelict as its neighbours, built in darkened brick which was crumbling with age. There must have been a bomb close-by during the war, because part of the upper floor was missing. ‘Come on!’ Realising that the Doctor had unlocked the door and was waiting for him, he followed him inside.

‘What is this place?’ Alan asked as the door closed behind them and darkness enveloped them.

‘You’ll see,’ he heard the Doctor’s tenor say and felt his hand take his. He let him lead him further inside the half-ruin and then stopped. The hinges of a door creaked, and light streamed in. The Doctor turned to look at him, his face still in shadows but his hair glowing gold, and tugged at his hand to make him follow.

It was like stepping into an intellectual Aladdin’s cave. Despite that the shattered window was half boarded up, it still let in light to show the contents of the room. Despite being sparsely furnished, the place was delightful, bookcases overflowed with books on every subject. There were countless stacks of books on the floor as well, as well as records and the familiar old-fashioned gramophone. Alan turned around to look at the Doctor, who was leaning against the door-post.

‘You’ve moved,’ he said in surprise.

‘Well, I need somewhere to have my things,’ the Doctor said with a casual shrug. ‘I was meaning to come back to Britain anyway. So I thought, why not Manchester? I’ve never lived in Manchester before.’

‘Does this mean... that I’ll see more of you?’ Alan asked hesitantly. The Doctor smiled and stepped into the room properly.

‘Yes, to some extent,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I’ll be sitting around here waiting to be called on, but I’ll turn up a little more, I think.’ Alan grinned, pleased. The Doctor answered it and started to tinker with the gramophone. Soon music spilled out of the brass horn. Alan smiled as the Doctor made a few experimental dance steps to the jazz, and crossed to the far corner of the room. Suddenly Alan realised what he had missed in the room. The odd blue wardrobe which had been the cause of the Doctor’s fit at the Crown Inn was standing there, mostly surrounded by high piles of books, but the doors were left free. Now the Doctor leaned against them and beckoned Alan into the room. Careful not to upset any of the book towers, he crossed the floor and took the Doctor’s outstretched hand. His grip changed from one around his hand to one around his wrist, which pulled him so close that there was only inches between their faces. Alan had seen the Doctor look flirtatious, but not seductive as now. He decided to beat him to it and leaned in. They kissed, first leisurely, then deeper, until Alan pulled back and suggested:

‘Bed?’ The Doctor smiled mysteriously and answered:

‘I’m doing rather well here, thank you.’ He was only happy to let him decide, and put it down as one of his eccentricities to rather have sex against the wardrobe than in bed. He could not help but notice how the Doctor’s free hand remained flattened against the painted surface of the wardrobe throughout, but he was not certain if he was imagining it or if he really attempted to dig his nails into the wood when he climaxed.

A little later, they were both sitting on the floor, backs against the wardrobe. Alan was smoking a cigarette, and the Doctor was tapping the disjointed rhythm of the music against his knees.

‘I’ve got an idea for a new paper,’ Alan said suddenly. He had not really meant to mention it, but he wanted the Doctor to be the first to know. It was after all because of him he had started thinking about it.

‘What about?’ he asked.

‘A little early to say yet,’ Alan admitted. ‘It’s about machine intelligence. It’s got to do with what happened in Dresden. Indirectly, of course. But I think I’m onto something.’ The Doctor smiled and took his hand.

‘I’m looking forward to it, then.’ Alan smiled back.

‘I’m glad,’ he said, and it sounded like a confession. When he heard himself say it, he did not know if he meant because the Doctor said he was looking forward to the paper he was thinking of writing, or because he was back, by the look of it to stay. After a while, he gave up trying to decide which one it was, reminding himself that they could not be logically extrapolated. The Doctor asked him on his opinion on some American research into computing, and he decided to concentrate on the discussion instead. It seemed as if their newly established connexion did not keep them from discussing intellectual matters. They continued the conversation as the Doctor walked back with him through the slums to the department, where they said goodbye, merely squeezing each other’s arms. Alan lingered at the doors, watching the green-coated figure stalk away into the bustle of people, and despaired at how exhilarating he found that he would see him soon again.


	5. Part five

As Alan had expected, despite his new accommodations, the Doctor’s visits remained sporadic, and varied in length. Sometimes they would simply go for a walk or have tea and talk of mathematics. Sometimes they would sneak into Alan’s room when his landlord was not hawkishly watching his tenants and enjoy more worldly pleasures. When the Mark 1 became operational in April, the Doctor came to see it and congratulated him greatly; his flattery meant more to him than the congratulations from anyone in the department or the attention of the press. He started pondering his new paper and, because of those very ideas, was caught up in an intellectual debate which was really to be blamed on the press, who had a tendency to clumsily call the machines “electronic brains”. One of the main opponents against the idea that a machine could ever think was a priest, whose reasoning was particularly biblical. Alan had to show the letters to the Doctor, and was glad when he laughed as much as he had done.

The Doctor’s habit to simply appear remained, sometimes with such startling suddenness that Alan became quite alarmed. It was therefore surprising when in July Alan’s secretary knocked on the door and told him:

‘Telephone call for you, sir. From doctor... I didn’t catch the name.’ Guessing the identity of the caller, he followed her out and took the telephone.

‘Turing speaking.’

‘Hello, Alan - I need to be quick, I’m afraid,’ the Doctor’s voice said; hearing it disembodied was odd. ‘I’m in a bit of a pickle. Do you think you could help me out...?’

Moments later, he had ended the call, collected his coat and was dashing through the department and out, towards the central police station. The duty sergeant looked up when he slammed the door open and stopped at the desk to catch his breath. When he had recovered, the policeman said:

‘How may I help you, sir?’

‘You’re keeping someone here I need to see - the Doctor.’ He frowned, but checked his records. As he waited, Alan worried that this was some kind of elaborate joke, but then the sergeant said:

‘Doctor John Smith?’

‘Yes,’ he answered with conviction he did not have. ‘What has he been arrested for?’

‘Trespassing and obstruction, sir. Are you Doctor Smith’s solicitor...?’ he asked, but at the end of the sentence he was taking in his dishevelled appearance and he sounded quite unsure, and none too pleased at the idea of letting him see the prisoner.

‘No, I’m not. Thank you,’ was all he could think of to say and then turned to leave. There was a telephone-box close by and, checking that he had the right coins, he stepped in and took out his address book. Then he realised he did not know who he was going to call. His first thought was his brother - he was a practical kind of person, the kind you wanted around when dealing with the law - but he knew that that would not work. He would have to explain how he knew the Doctor, and John would disapprove if he knew that his little brother had been involved with someone who had been arrested. He looked through the address book and stopped at the obvious alternative.

The wait for someone to answer on the other end was so long that he was worried that the money would run out before there was a reply. But then there was a click and a woman’s voice said:

‘Mister Alexander’s office.’

‘Hello - could I please speak to Mister Alexander? Tell him it’s Doctor Turing.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Another silence, which made him start worrying an old bruise on his thumb, a bad habit which always struck when he was nervous. Finally Hugh Alexander’s familiar voice sounded in the receiver.

‘Hello, Prof! Long time...’

‘Hello, Hugh,’ he said, smiling to himself. ‘I’m afraid I’m not calling to chat. I need your help with something.’

‘Oh?’ So Alan told him what he knew, making it sound like he was more informed than he was. When he finally finished, there was silence. ‘No,’ Hugh said. ‘No, Alan.’

‘He helped us,’ he answered in a load whisper. ‘He solved that problem of ours, don’t you remember? We owe it to him.’

‘Well, this isn’t about owing him for his service to king and country, is it?’ Hugh answered with a sigh, which did not sound disapproving as much as exasperated. ‘Really, Alan, what is it about this Doctor chap which turns your head? You are never out of line otherwise...’

‘I’m not out of line - I’m not trying to be,’ Alan answered back, getting rather flustered. ‘I’m just asking a favour.’

‘It’s a favour too big,’ Hugh said. They were silent for a moment, and then he continued, as if feeling he needed to defend himself: ‘Honestly, I can’t go around making the police release people like this.’

‘He’s not guilty of any of those things,’ Alan objected. ‘He was never rewarded in any way, even if he helped us...’ There was yet another pause, and then Hugh sighed.

‘Only this once.’

‘You’ll do it?’

‘Yes, yes, I will, but it will never happen again, do you understand?’ he said, sounding almost hectic about the importance of this.

‘Yes, I understand perfectly,’ Alan answered. ‘Thank you, Hugh.’

‘God help me,’ he just said, then in a more friendly tone: ‘You’re bad at keeping in touch, Alan - get better at it. Next time you’re in Cheltenham, let’s have lunch or something.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Thank you - I really mean it.’

‘I hope so,’ Hugh sighed. ‘I’ll deal with it at once. It may take some time, of course - get stuck in the pipelines...’

‘Of course.’ Then they said goodbye and hung up. Alan turned his steps towards the police-station again and settled on a bench close by, picking up a book from his pocket to keep himself busy. He did not spare it much thought, but glanced up every time the doors opened. After some two hours, they swung up and the unmistakable form of the Doctor appeared. He hurried past, not noticing him.

‘Doctor!’ Alan shouted and left the bench at a run while trying to stuff the book back into his pocket. ‘Doctor!’ The Doctor spun around and when he caught sight of him, his face split into a wide smile.

‘Alan! I knew calling you would work,’ he said as the other man caught up with him.

‘Thank my friends in the Secret Services,’ Alan said under his breath, so that no passers-by would hear them. He almost had to run to keep up with the Doctor. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Train-station,’ he answered, narrowly avoiding running into an old lady. ‘From there to London, and then to Paris, and then to Zürich. Something’s going on, and I want to find out what it is - if it’s something sinister...’ He stopped abruptly and whirled around to face Alan. ‘Will you look after her for me?’

‘Who?’ Alan asked, but then he realised that the Doctor had taken his keys out of his pocket and was working one of them lose from the key-ring. When it had been freed, he pressed it into Alan’s hand and closed his fingers around it, looking him in the eye to make sure that he understood.

‘I’ll be back to collect the key later,’ he said and then, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned in and kissed his cheek. ‘See you.’ And then he was gone, running down the street with his coat flying behind him. Alan put his free hand to his cheek in a vain attempt to keep the sensation of the kiss from disappearing. Then he became aware of the shape of the key digging into his hand, and he looked down at it. He knew where it led.

***

More than a week passed before Alan had time to leave work early to brave the slums. He did not want to go there after dark, so he had had little choice but to wait. Even in daylight, the house looked eery, its derelict frame little more than a skeleton which had not lost all its skin yet. He could not help looking around suspiciously when he stepped up and started unlocking the door. It would be easy enough to break into the house, considering that most of the upper floor were gone, so if someone saw the front-door being unlocked, they might be given a reason to burgle it.

The interior was no less unsettling than the exterior. It was unnaturally quiet without the Doctor’s endearing rambling, and cold had permeated the walls. When he stepped into the only inhabited room, he saw that it was much like it always was. The bed was made, but books and journals were scattered over it, as well as over the floor. Many were in strange languages; Alan recognised one of the titles as Tamil. Then he realised that one of his own articles was there, and he smiled, as if the Doctor had just paid him a silent compliment.

The wardrobe was in the far corner of the room. It seemed inevitable that he would turn his attention to it - the Doctor had asked if he would look after “her”, and he could only guess that this was what he had meant. He had heard the Doctor refer to the box as “she” a few times. Briefly he remembered that the Wrens at Bletchley Park had referred to the Bombe decryption units as “she”, as if pretending they were ships. Perhaps it was something similar at work here. It was probably just one of the Doctor’s odd ideas, but Alan felt that indulging him a little would not hurt, and he wanted to be able to say that he had done as he had asked.

‘Hello,’ he said experimentally, staring straight into the blue-painted wood. Ridiculous, he then thought to himself, but something compelled him to raise his hand and feel the door. At first he thought it was locked, but just as he drew his hand away the door moved a fraction. As if called, he opened it and looked into the wardrobe. He could not see why the Doctor was so attached to it, more attached to it than to anything else, it seemed, even (he dreaded to think) than to him. Experimentally he opened both doors and stepped inside the box to look at the interior. It looked perfectly ordinary, the walls on the inside painted the same dark blue as the outside.

The sensation came too quickly for him to register its reason, but all of a sudden, something like vertigo came upon him. It was as if he could see something in the corner of his eye which made him sway, and for a moment he felt as if he was falling. Then, as if reality grabbed hold of him again, he stumbled out of the box and collapsed on the floor. He still felt dizzy and a little sick, but he could not tell what had caused it. _Probably just a head-rush_ , he told himself and sat up properly. _What else could it be?_ He could not accept the apparent answer - surely it could not have been because of the box...

‘It’s just a box,’ he said out loud, trying to ignore how badly he was panting from the experience. As soon as he had calmed down, he got up, closed the doors of the wardrobe and after a final look around he left quickly.

***

The weeks passed in a blur, and there was no sign of the Doctor. Occasionally Alan went back to the derelict house where the Doctor stored his things to make sure everything was in order, but he did not go close to the strange box in the corner. When almost two months had passed since he last saw the Doctor, his concern had turned into real worry, and not knowing quite what else to do, he went back to the police station. The duty sergeant obviously recognised him when he entered.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked, not sounding very helpful at all.

‘About two months ago, you arrested a man who gave his name as Doctor John Smith,’ Alan started, thinking that asking about “the Doctor” would take too much explanation.

‘I think I remember that, sir.’

‘Have you, well...’ He shuffled his feet, bit his lip and then said: ‘Has he caused any more trouble?’ The sergeant looked at him as if he was quite mad. ‘Only - I don’t know where he is. He’s... gone missing. Only he does do that kind of thing...’

‘I’ll check the records, sir,’ the man said with a sigh. As he disappeared, Alan fidgeting with the loose key to the house in his pocket. After not long, the sergeant returned. ‘Doctor Smith has not had any more contact with this station, at least. Would you like to report him missing?’

‘Thank you,’ Alan said quickly. ‘I don’t think that’s quite necessary.’ He left, feeling he was probably overreacting about the Doctor’s absence. The sergeant’s response had not been encouraging; he glanced over his shoulder to see him speaking on the telephone. Trying to put it all out of his mind, he went back to the department. He only just noticed a black car parked outside the police station.

That evening when he came home, a black car was parked on the other side of the road, and he could not help wondering if he had not seen it before. When leaving the department for lunch the next day, he was certain that the same car was waiting outside. The paranoia everyone had felt during the war years came back. He started cycling alternative routes to the department and went for lunch at new places, but the black car kept catching up with him. After a week, the constant tension was taking its toll on his nerves and making concentrating on his work hard. Every half-hour, he would glance out of the window; he could just about see the car from there.

It was during one of these meanderings between the desk and the window Miss Popplewell knocked on his door and announced:

‘There’s a telephone call for you, sir.’ Happy for the distraction, he went out to the anteroom and took the receiver she was offering him.

‘Turing speaking.’

‘Hello, Alan,’ a melodious voice, remarkable in its softness, said. Alan gulped.

‘Doctor. Are... are you alright?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ the Doctor said on the other end of the line; he could imagine him smiling. ‘I wanted to thank you. For looking after things.’

‘No need,’ he said, feeling flattered and embarrassed at the same time. ‘Glad to do it... What’s that sound?’ There was something like an engine in the background. Years of working machines had made him good at telling how machinery looked by its sound alone, but he could not imagine this. It sounded immense, but that was not what baffled him. There was something more to that sound than valves and electrical charges. The engine noise sounded almost like singing.

‘Oh, nothing,’ the Doctor answered hastily. ‘Just the line being a bit dodgy.’ He sighed, half with frustration at the strange answer, half with relief at hearing his voice again. He had missed him more than he had wanted to admit to himself.

‘Are you coming back soon?’

‘I don’t know. I wish I could tell you, but I have no idea.’

Alan bit his lip, trying to assess the risk that the line was tapped. Then he decided that if they had been so thorough, they should not be so obvious with that car. Therefore he just turned his back to his secretary and said quietly:

‘Doctor, I think I’m being followed.’

‘By whom?’ the Doctor asked, suddenly businesslike.

‘I don’t know. Just always the same car...’

‘Come on, Alan,’ he said, now in a playful tone, as if chiding him. ‘You’ve done the secret stuff - you can handle it.’

‘This is different,’ Alan grumbled. Codebreaking was nothing like spying.

‘For how long?’ He was serious again.

‘About a week.’

‘If they haven’t done anything yet... Hm, don’t worry to much about it.’ He nodded.

‘Alright.’

‘I hope to be back soon. And thank you.’ Alan was just about to thank him for calling, but he had already hung up. With a sigh he put down the receiver and went back into his office. After some deliberation, he dropped the blinds on the window and took his shoe off. They were getting a little old, and the inner sole had been coming loose for some time now. It was easy enough to tear it up, and he found that the key to the Doctor’s house fitted well under it. It would certainly be uncomfortable but, he thought as he glued the sole back on, it would be fairly fool-proof. He knew the Doctor was right; he had played the game before and knew the rules, but if these people had any serious interest in him, he wanted to know why.

By some small miracle, he managed to get some work done, and when it was approaching five o’clock, he decided it was time. He collected his coat and hat and bid his secretary a good day. Then he marched out of the department building, down the street and up to the black car as if he had some idea what he was doing. When he reached it, he tapped on the window hard to get the driver’s attention. The man at the wheel opened the door and stepped out. He was fairly nondescript, a rather ugly sneer the only thing in his face which was properly noticeable.

‘Are we in the way, guv’nor?’ he asked, in an accent better than his choice of words.

‘I want to know why you’ve been following me,’ Alan said, his voice sounding shrill and strange to his own ears. The man watched him for a few moments, the sneer widening slightly.

‘Orders,’ he said at last.

‘Whose orders?’ There was another measuring look, and then the man raised his eyebrows and said:

‘You’d better get in.’ Although it was phrased as an advice, it was obvious that this was yet another order. Alan gave him a disdainful look and stepped into the back seat. He now saw that there was a woman sitting in the other front seat; she seemed to try to catch his eye in the mirror, but he promptly looked out of the window, feeling disgusted at the surveillance he had been under.

The drive was no longer than ten minutes, and when they stopped, they made him follow simply with a nod. He had decided that the man was probably not much more than a driver. The woman, however, had the air of a spy about her. He could not tell where they were, but the building looked like it had been hurriedly emptied to make a temporary headquarters. The room which they showed him into was by its featureless appearance unmistakable as an interview room.

The door closed behind him, leaving him on his own. For a moment he panicked - what had he got himself into? _No,_ he said to himself. _This would be the worst possible moment to lose control. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got nothing to hide. Let them ask their questions - they’ve made some kind of mistake._ He took a deep breath and sat down at the table. First he simply intertwined his fingers, but he could not conjure up such a semblance of calm, so instead he took out his cigarettes.

He was on his second when the door finally opened. He had to stop himself from jumping to his feet, and tried to hide how he snapped into the attention when his interrogator entered the room. To his surprise, he was not a civilian; his uniform resembled an RAF captain’s, but it was not complete. Despite not being entirely in regulation clothing, he gave off the air of a man who cared excessively for his appearance, with not a hair out of place. Alan remembered the unpleasant briefings at Bletchley Park with military men who did not understand the technicalities of codebreaking and imagined that the boffins could simply conjure up the information they needed. On top of that they often despised the eccentricity and dishevelledness of many of the cryptanalysts, making a point of looking unnaturally well-groomed themselves. He would not be surprised if this man was like that, but now, his old shoe gave him more worry than his stubble and worn jumper. He curled his toes and felt the edge of the key under the sole.

The man did not speak for some time after sitting down, but leafed through one of the quite thick files he had with him. Alan’s cigarette was close to burning his fingers, and awkwardly he reached out to the ash-tray to stub it out. The movement seemed to alert the officer of his presence, and he looked at him as if fascinated that there was another person in the room. Alan met his eyes defiantly and, inwardly wondering why he was not keeping silent, asked:

‘Why am I here?’

‘You must know that,’ the man answered. To Alan’s surprise, his accent was a broad American.

‘No, as a matter of fact I don’t.’

‘Really?’ he snorted and kept looking through the file.

'Why would I?’

‘Do you really know nothing about the secret services, Doctor Turing?’ the officer asked, looking at him again.

‘Why would I?’ Alan repeated. The man raised his eyebrows, as if mentally awarding him the round, and then tapped the file.

‘Everything there is to know about you is in this file. Everything. We know about Enigma. We know about the Delilah machine. We know about why you were sent to America during the war, and we know about the Russian codes. And not only that - anything you’d care to name which relates to you - anything which might be of any kind of value - is in here.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he just said. The man gave him a disapproving look and put down the file, still open. The table was so narrow that Alan could see the contents, even if he could not read the text. There was a photograph paperclipped to one of the pages; his heart jolted when he saw that it was of Neville. Why was there a picture of Neville in _his_ file? The answer was almost too easy. When the man had said they knew everything, they meant everything, not only about his work, but about his private life as well. When he looked up from the file, he found the man watching him as if he were trying to convey something important only through his eyes. Unsettled by this breach of privacy, he looked away.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘MI5?’ The American laughed softly.

‘MI5 takes care of the... little more mundane cases.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘That you’d rather want to be interrogated by MI5,’ he answered. There was a long silence, which was finally broken by an abrupt: ‘You’ve been asking questions about the Doctor.’ Alan looked up, surprised at the mention of the name. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said again, but weakly.

‘Playing dumb won’t help, Doctor Turing,’ the man said, his tone much sterner now. ‘We know that you enquired about the Doctor on July the 7th and September the 13th at the central police station here in Manchester. In July you even got him out of custody through a pretty little trick with your contacts at Cheltenham.’ He did not answer. The interrogator decided to press on. ‘I said everything was in this file. It’s not quite true.’ Alan would not give him the satisfaction of asking what it was, but he was rapidly realising that whatever was going on, he had probably made a mistake to pursue his enquiries. ‘What were you doing the two first months of 1945?’ He stiffened, but did not answer. ‘We know where you were throughout the war, apart from those two months. This document-’ he held up two typed pages ‘-is obviously a right-down lie. Where were you?’ _You don’t know because you’re not supposed to know,_ Alan thought. Greene had assured him that he would write up some kind of explanation to the odd code and the Doctor’s part of the story. As far as his Majesty’s Government was concerned, the Strangers were a non-event.

‘I was at Hanslope,’ he said, too choked to sound casual.

‘No, you weren’t,’ the American retorted. ‘And you weren’t in Bletchley either.’

‘My work during the war is classified,’ Alan said, voice rising in indignation.

‘Nothing is classified for me.’

‘Is that so?’ he answered, angered by the man’s arrogance. ‘You haven’t even told me your name or rank, let alone who you work for. Assuming I will tell you anything is preposterous.’ The interrogator watched him, seemingly torn between scorn and sense, and then said, ignoring his request:

‘Tell me about the Doctor.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said quickly.

‘Yes, there is.’

‘I don’t know anyone by that name!’ Alan almost shouted. It had the opposite of the desired effect; the interrogator smiled maliciously.

‘But that’s not a name, is it? It’s a title. Why did you call it a name?’ Realising his mistake, Alan looked away and rubbed his face, hoping it would help him concentrate.

‘I met a man who called himself the Doctor in December 1944 at Oxford. I held a lecture at S:t John’s College.’

‘Thank you,’ the man said. ‘And then?’

‘There’s nothing more to it,’ he answered simply.

‘That’s a lie. When did you last see him?’

‘I haven’t seen him since then. It’s six years ago.’

‘So why did you ask the police if they knew where he was only a week ago?’ the American asked, face contorted in anger. ‘Why suddenly so interested?’ Alan did not answer, but resolutely kept his mouth shut. The interrogator breathed in violently, like a bull getting ready to charge. ‘There are two months of your life unaccounted for,’ he said, stressing every syllable. ‘We know you came to Bletchley Park on Hugh Alexander’s orders. After that, the trail runs dry. You weren’t there, but you weren’t anywhere else either. All we know is that in some way, the Doctor was involved. Britain’s top cryptanalyst goes missing, and there is no proper record of it, only a pack of typed half-lies. We know you have consorted with a dangerous man...’

‘“Dangerous”?’ Alan repeated incredulously.

‘Exceedingly,’ he answered. ‘Tell me. Where did he take you?’

‘Nowhere,’ Alan just said.

‘Try again.’

‘I honestly don’t see where you hope your line of enquiry is going to take you, sir, but...’

‘Tell me about the Doctor!’ the American all but screamed. His sudden rage shook Alan, and, afraid at what he would say otherwise, he simply kept silent. ‘What has he shown you?’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ It came out as a mere whisper.

‘Do you know his current whereabouts?’ the man pressed.

‘I don’t know anything,’ Alan said, and was scared at how truthful this was.

‘What of the box?’

He looked up, shocked.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, throat gone dry.

‘He always has a box with him, no matter what.’ His toes curled against the key in his shoe, reassuring himself that it was still there. ‘Has he shown you it?’

‘What of it? It’s just a box,’ Alan said, not seeing what interest the man could have in it.

‘When did you see it?’ the captain asked, his eyes lighting up.

‘In ’44.’ It was only half a lie; he had been shown the strange box in Bletchley when he met the Doctor for the second time. He felt it would be better not to mention the house in Manchester.

‘You said “just a box”,’ the American noted, scoffing slightly. ‘Have you seen the inside of it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, not understanding the relevance of these questions at all. ‘It’s just a box. There’s nothing special about it.’ Only he knew that that was a lie - there had been something - that sense of vertigo when he had stood inside it...

His answer seemed to worry the officer. He leaned back in his chair and seemed to think, then picked up the as yet untouched file and looked in it.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he murmured, and then told him: ‘Describe the Doctor.’ Alan hesitated, but then decided that it would not do more harm than he had already done.

‘A little under average height. In his forties, I guess. He has shoulder-length light-brown hair and blue eyes...’

‘What about his clothes?’ he asked, looking up in the ceiling while listening.

‘Very old-fashioned - almost dandyish,’ Alan admitted. ‘He always wears a waistcoat and cravat, with a wing-collared shirt. He’s got a bottle-green coat, and a pocket watch. He wears his hair let down.’

‘So he doesn’t look like this?’ the officer asked, picked up a photograph from the file and handed it to him. Alan laughed in disbelief when he saw it; the man in it was tall and boney, his hair cropped and his face harsh and big-nosed. He had none of the Doctor’s beauty, not any of his elegance; his clothes looked like those of a labourer.

‘This isn’t him,’ Alan said, conviction in his voice. ‘Completely different man.’

‘Are you sure?’ the American persisted.

‘Believe me, the Doctor isn’t an easy man to mistake for anyone else,’ he said.

‘You’d be surprised,’ the interrogator said, as if half to himself, and then suddenly got to his feet. ‘You’re free to go.’ He took the picture from him and put it back in the file, which was bulging with documents; when he closed it Alan saw the word on the tag: “Doctor”. When he saw that he was still seated, the officer said: ‘I said you could go. I’m afraid there’s been some kind of cock-up - breakdown of communication, probably. Sorry about that.’

‘What? Just like... that?’

‘Would you prefer it if I charged you with something?’ the officer asked sarcastically, and Alan got to his feet. With the sigh of a defeated man, the man took both files under his arm and was just about to leave when he seemed to remember something. ‘A word of advice,’ he said, turning back. ‘The Doctor is not to be trusted. Watch out for him. Even if he’s not himself now, he should not be trusted.’

‘Why?’ Alan asked, his dislike for the man returning rapidly.

‘Because people who trust him have a worrying tendency of having awful things happen to them,’ the American answered. ‘If he turns up again, send him on his way. Whatever he might have said to you is probably a lie.’

‘You don’t have very high thoughts of him, I see,’ Alan observed coldly.

‘Let’s say I have my reasons,’ he answered. ‘Just trying to be friendly.’

‘I think I can pick whom I trust myself, thank you,’ he said and passed him. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He kept his face as he ventured through the dreary corridors and down the stairs, and only when he stepped outside did he allow the agitation to reach him. The question of trust was one he did not like contemplating; he trusted the Doctor too much, and not at all. What had the Doctor done to warrant that the mere mention of his name lead to interrogation? Involuntarily, Alan looked up at the building again, as if trying to find answers to what he was dealing with. He doubted that whatever organisation the RAF officer worked for was actually stationed there - he had a feeling that he had been called in from outside. What he had said at the beginning of the interview came back to him - “you’d rather be interrogated by MI5.” Who were worse than MI5? He sifted through abbreviations of organisations he had heard of during the war, but however he tried, Alan could not think of anything which made sense with what had happened.

That old fear of the Doctor’s actual identity struck him again. The nameless interrogator was right - it was not a name, it was a a title. People had names. People made sense. However deeply bogged down in the Secret Services they were, they were ordinary human beings. But the Doctor... there were never any answers, only questions. Perhaps he had been right all those years ago when he had wondered if he was a spy - perhaps “the Doctor” was just a code-name, and the big-nosed man on the picture he had been shown was another holder of the same position. There were few other explanations which made much sense, but even that theory felt flawed. The Doctor disappeared off constantly, but he was never truly secretive - or what that just a clever disguise? If he seemed absent-minded and bent on careless talk, no one would suspect him... But for whom would he work? Judging from the interview, he had no formal bonds with the British government, if he was not a renegade, in which case the question remained unanswered. He had noticed already during the war that the Doctor knew Russian - perhaps he was a Soviet agent. But it still did not add up. Did he have his own ulterior motive - perhaps he was not true to any organisation? Besides, the fact that he knew Russian meant nothing - he knew he spoke French and German and Japanese, and apparently Tamil and Arabic and Turkish and Greek, to mention a few of the languages there were books in at his house. It said nothing.

As Alan walked down the street, he wished that he could just view the Doctor as just another lover, or perhaps as an intriguing riddle. It seemed impossible - the Doctor would not be contained even within those harmless distinctions. Every time he met him, there was a part of Alan which screamed at him to get away, because this man was dangerous, just as the officer had said, but he simply could not give into that urge to flee. There was so much keeping him back, and not only romantic attraction; the Doctor was an equation which needed to be solved, but also someone who could never be understood. His presence gave reality the feel of an adventure. Even now, as he made his way home shaken and intimidated, his life was a little more thrilling because of the Doctor. He had told whoever was after him nothing which would help them find him, and the key to the house was still secure in his shoe. In case they still followed him, he would not go back there, and he would not ask for the Doctor again until he came back. He just hoped that he would do so soon.


	6. Part six

Alan could not imagine that there would be any bonfires on this year’s Bonfire Night. It had been in the air for days, but it was not until early evening the rain finally started. Happy that he had not made any plans for the evening, he poured himself a glass of scotch and took the H.G. Wells novella he was reading into the living-room. He felt reassuringly like a boy again as he wrapped himself in a blanket and leaned close to the lamp to catch the light. It reminisced staying up later than he was really allowed, but knowing that he would not be caught. The rain outside was growing stronger, to the point where he assumed it would abate soon, but it did not. Time slipped by leisurely as he read the fantastical story and idly contemplated Gödel metric and its relevance to the story. It felt like the storm had encased him, and he imagined being the only person in the world, happily isolated by his reading-lamp with a glass of scotch, while the world outside was slowly and solemnly being swallowed out by the water...

Something made him look up suddenly. Had there been a sound form outside? Now, all he could hear was the rain, but there had been something... A little less at ease, he went back to his reading, but found that he could not concentrate. Finally he gave up and turned on the wireless to expel the silence. When he returned to the sofa and drew the rug over him again, the feeling of boyhood came back, but in a different shape now. As he sat there, scotch glass clasped in both hands and listening to the storm more than the wireless, he was reminded of sleepless nights at Sherborne School, sitting awake in bed in a dormitory filled with sleeping boys, awaiting oblivion or being found by the prefect. He remembered the worries from when he was a boy with such startling intensity that he could not even be grateful that he had escaped that god-forsaken school to Cambridge, a world filled with mathematics and acceptance. Just as he had done then, he remained perfectly still and listened. Giving in to the memories, he turned off the wireless again and let the sound of the rain be everything there was to hear.

There it was again. It was the sound of movement from the garden. He had only moved into the house a few months ago, and was not yet used to its noises, so he dismissed it as imagination and remained still, lost in thoughts of youthful ambition and Chris Morcom. When he finished his scotch, he decided to break the spell and go to the kitchen to top up the glass. The house itself was eerily quiet as he picked his way through the darkness. He had just uncorked the bottle when he became aware of something in the garden again, this time not by sound but by spotting some form of movement through the window. With a _clunk_ , he put down the bottle again, staring in terror at the blackness. Now he was certain of it - there was someone in the garden. A tramp? A burglar? A spy? Finding a flashlight, he carefully made his way to the back door, but hesitated before opening it. Perhaps he had simply agitated himself too much with thoughts of old qualms - it was probably nothing. At most, it was a ghost he himself had imagined. Still, he needed to be sure. He pushed the door open.

‘Hello?’ he called, but his voice was lost in the sound of the rain. Fumbling with the flashlight, he turned it on and scanned the garden. There was something there.

The first thing he noticed was not the intruder’s physical presence, but his shiver. It drew his attention to the right place even before he had time to direct the flash-light. What was more terrifying was that when he finally shone the light right at him, it still took him a few moments to recognise him, because first, he only saw a soaked, broken figure, staring at him without feeling. It was only after they had stared at each other for what felt like minutes and Alan’s heart was beating at a painful speed, he suddenly recognised the matted hair and the tattered clothes.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said and picked his way over to the Doctor quickly. He did not move or acknowledge him, only stare at the place where he had been standing. He looked like a man who had witnessed too much and could not take in more. Alan put his hand on his shoulder, wincing at the squelch of the velvet. ‘Come on, you’re completely soaked,’ he said and grabbed his arm. ‘Come inside. Why didn’t you ring the doorbell? Why did you climb into the garden?’

The Doctor did not answer, but let himself be lead into the house and up the stairs. Alan silently wondered how long he had been standing there; by the look of him, since the rain started. The only thing which betrayed some feeling in him was how he shivered, and when Alan took his hand to steer him into the bathroom, he found his skin so cold that he had to let go of him. ‘Let’s get you out of those clothes and fix you a nice hot bath,’ he muttered, mostly to himself, as he turned the taps of the bath-tub. When he turned back and saw that the Doctor had not moved since he turned back, he bit his lip in worry. ‘Doctor?’ There was the faintest reaction; he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Alan thought that his previous reminiscences of his childhood seemed strangely symbolic, because now he had to be the opposite of a child. Trying to sound assuring, he continued speaking, without saying anything of any relevance, as he made the Doctor take off his coat and then released him from his other soaked clothes. As he struggled with the knot of the cravat and the buttons of his shirt, he wondered what could possibly have put the Doctor in such a state. He coaxed the man out of his clothes and into the bath, but throughout the Doctor did not speak a word. When he was in the bath, Alan hurried to the bedroom to change his shirt and retrieve a set of pyjamas. He went back to the bathroom and left them there for the Doctor.

‘Come downstairs when you’ve warmed up, alright?’ he said, collecting the wet clothes which were lying on the floor. The Doctor just stared at his hands, as if they were someone else’s. ‘Doctor, did you hear me?’ He did not turn his head as much as jerk it slightly to the side, but it was at least an acknowledgement. Alan lingered for a moment, not certain if he should say or do something more, but then turned away and returned to the kitchen.

It seemed like the rain had ruined the Doctor’s velvet coat completely, but in hope that it would save it, Alan put it on a coat-hanger and emptied the pockets. He was only marginally surprised at finding that the Doctor had slashed open the pockets, so that things had fallen into the lining. He found two books, a half-eaten apple, several yo-yos, a bird’s feather, a blank identity card and an impressive number of screws. After all this bric-a-brac, he was surprised at finding only a single piece of paper in the inner-pocket. When he drew it out, it tore a little. The paper was soaked through and, afraid to ruin anything of the Doctor’s, he put it on the table and smoothed it out. The tear he had caused was not the only one; the note was almost worn through where it had been folded, and the rain had probably not helped. Still Alan was surprised to see that the ink had not run at all. The hand-writing was oddly regular, as if it had been printed out but with unusual letter shapes. There was certainly something odd about the ink; not only was it not affected by the water, the thickness of it did not vary, and there was no signs of where the pen had been lifted. Even in the half-light, he could make out the message easily.

> Meet me in St Louis, February 8th, 2001. - Fitz

‘Fitz?’ Alan said to himself. When he had emptied the coat pockets, he had only done so because he was afraid the content would ruin the velvet. He had not meant to pry, but reading the note, he told himself, was tantamount to spying. There was that huge question again of who the Doctor really was. This was the first thing he had seen which gave some clue, although he was not certain what nature that clue was. Who was Fitz? A friend? An accomplice? A lover? And what did the instruction mean - particularly that absurd date? _Surely it can’t be... He must have made some mistake..._ And what about the note? How long had the Doctor carried it in his pocket? How had it lasted even to this stage? It was worn thin and there were small tears, but it had not ripped or fallen apart. What kind of ink was that? Even if it seemed like this note should lead him to some answer, it only deepened the mystery.

Knowing it would do little good to brood on it, Alan dealt with the other clothes, which were all soaked through and badly worn, and then set about preparing some cocoa. He did not know if it would really help against the Doctor’s apathy, but at least it would warm him up and provide some form of comfort. On second thought he added a splash of the scotch to the mugs before taking them into the living room as he heard descending footsteps.

‘In here!’ he shouted, and heard the sound of bare feet shuffling against the carpet grow stronger. The Doctor looked marginally better than before; at least there was some kind of awareness in his eyes now, and wearing something dry made him look less helpless. He was still paler than usual and his hair hung dully to his shoulders, the curls darkened and straightened by the water. ‘I made some cocoa,’ Alan said, feeling rather ridiculous, because it sounded like he was speaking to a child. To be fair, the Doctor was acting like little else as he watched him suspiciously and then crossed to the sofa and curled up in the far corner of it. Alan handed him the mug, but kept his distance. They sat in silence for a while, until he picked up courage to speak again. ‘Doctor, what happened?’ There was no answer. ‘You can’t stay silent forever. Perhaps... perhaps I could help. If you’d let me.’ Another pause. ‘Would you tell me?’

The Doctor shifted, eyes still fixed on the floor, but he seemed to be thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was silent and cracked.

‘Who am I, Alan?’

 _I don’t know._

‘You’re the Doctor,’ Alan said. There was no other adequate answer he could give, and however much he hoped that that reply would be sufficient, he knew that it would not. The Doctor looked at him, piercing him with his gaze.

‘What does that _mean_?’

‘Doctor, I...’

‘ _Answer me_.’ Alan stopped and looked away. ‘Why don’t I know who I am? Why can’t I remember?’

‘I don’t know,’ he answered truthfully. There was something in the other man’s voice which unsettled him - it was raw and violent - untamed, even. Alan put his mug aside and got to his feet, as if it would give him some kind of advantage. The Doctor stayed as he had been, legs folded and hands clasped around the mug, but his shoulders were hunched and his eyes fixed on him.

‘Explain it to me,’ he demanded. ‘Everyone I meet is different from me - they all have context. They have homes. Why don’t I? Did I ever?’

‘You’ve got the house with your books and things,’ Alan attempted, scared of where this would go. ‘And you’ve got the box.’

‘The box...’ the Doctor repeated, and his eyes seemed to grow brighter as his face darkened. ‘Explain that to me, if nothing else. What is she? Why can’t I stand to be away from her? Why do I call her “she” anyway?’ When he did not answer, but only stared at him, he said, force in his voice: ‘You’re so clever, Alan, you know so much. So explain that to me. What is she?’

‘It’s just a box,’ Alan said quietly.

‘ _She’s not just a box!_ ’ the Doctor screamed, leaping up and hurling the mug away from him. Alan shouted out and saw how the mug smashed against the wall, splashing the wall-paper with cocoa. Panting with the shock, he looked back at the Doctor and found that he had curled up on the floor and was rocking back and forth. With every repeated movement, he said the same thing: ‘Take it back, take it back, take it back...’ His distress at seeing the man in such a state won over his fear that he would lash out again, and timidly he approached him and knelt beside him.

‘I take it back,’ he whispered, voice shaking, and placed a hand on the Doctor’s back. ‘There’s... something... but I don’t know what. I just don’t understand it.’

‘Just tell me what she is,’ the Doctor sobbed. ‘Why is she the single most important thing to me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alan repeated. He could not stand seeing the Doctor like this - it reminded him far too much of his distress in Dresden - but found it equally hard to hear him say such strange things that implied his own unimportance. He was desperate to find some way to calm him, and finally the Doctor yielded to his touch and raised his body enough to let him wrap his arms around him. He hugged him tightly, patting his wet hair and hushing him, as the Doctor wept against his shoulder. When his sobs finally subsided and the only thing shaking his body was his breaths, he hugged back. They stayed intertwined for a long time, until Alan’s legs started to cramp.

‘You should sleep,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’ The Doctor made a small, rather pathetic noise as he made him get onto his feet and he lead him upstairs. He was indeed in a pitiful state, his eyes raw with crying and his gaze still a little lost. Alan lead him into his own bedroom and, without changing out of his day-clothes, curled up with him firmly in his arms. ‘It’ll feel better in the morning,’ he assured him as a stray sob escaped the Doctor. The only answer was a snort, as if to say that he had a hard time believing that. As if to reassert what he had said, Alan leaned in and kissed his cheek, hugging him a little tighter.

He became aware of the man already drifting off into sleep, but he himself was still awake and aware of his body against his. He was not as cold as he had ben before, but still too cool. One of his hands rested on his chest, and he could feel the Doctor’s heart through the fabric of the pyjama jacket. There was something off with it - it was too fast and bounded through his chest in the most startling way. Alan bit his lip at the sensation; he had noticed the Doctor’s strange heart rhythm before, but then they had been in a rather different situation then. It had not surprised him during sex, but now, when the man was almost asleep, it was far more worrying. He suddenly remembered once when he and Chris had fooled around, as they often did when doing experiments, and had pretended to dare each other to put their fingers in an acid they were working with. As they took turns to pretend to stick their hands in the beaker, Alan had thought that Chris had seemed a little too intent on showing off, and he had grabbed his wrist to stop him. Before Chris had ripped his hand from his grip with a snort ( _I wasn’t going to do it, you moron!_ ), Alan had noticed a slight hitch in the pulse under the skin. He had not thought about it at the time, but when the boy died a year later, it became painfully apparent that he had felt a symptom of his illness. Now, as he felt the Doctor’s heart beating far too fast and vigorously, he expressed a silent wish; not again. He pondered if he should call for a medic, considering how agitated and pale he was, but then decided against it. If the Doctor was on the run again, he did not want to draw attention to him, and even if the feel of his heart was certainly wrong, he had not seemed ill as much as disturbed. Holding him closer, he tried to sleep, the double beat of that heart under his fingers.

***

Alan woke up clutching an empty pyjama jacket. There was music coming from downstairs.

Eyes still blurred with sleep, he descended the stairs and followed the sound into the living-room. In the middle of the room stood the Doctor, Alan’s violin under his chin. He did not know know the piece he played, but he did not pay much attention to the music, even if he played remarkably well. Some sleep had certainly done the Doctor good, because where there had been agitation and violence yesterday, there was serenity and concentration. His hair had dried and was back in its heavy locks, which added to the sense of delicate beauty, as his fingers wandered over the strings and his eyelashes shadowed his cheeks. When he finished the piece, which he must have known by heart, he waited for a moment and then, lowering the instrument, looked up.

‘What are you staring at?’ he said playfully and smiled, as if last night had not happened.

‘Oh, just not every morning I find a bare-chested man playing the violin in my living-room,’ Alan answered casually.

‘You clearly sleep with the wrong people,’ the Doctor answered and winked as he put the violin back in its case. ‘I’m a little surprised, I must say - I didn’t imagine you as the kind who played the violin.’

‘I’ve been neglecting it recently,’ Alan admitted, leaving his place in the door and sitting down in the sofa instead. ‘But I enjoy it. Need to keep something artistic up as well, I guess.’ He wondered briefly if they had not had this conversation before, but his train of thought was interrupted by the Doctor sitting down beside him and looking at him earnestly.

‘I screamed at you,’ he observed.

‘Yes,’ he said and shrugged.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Doctor said, and then looked at the cocoa stains. ‘For that and for ruining your wall.’  
‘It’s...’ He stopped himself from saying it was alright, because it would be lying - the Doctor’s fit yesterday had frightened him, even if it had not offended him. The cocoa stains could be dealt with; he would probably just move a shelf to cover them. ‘I’m glad you’re better. Because you are, right?’

‘Yes, yes,’ the Doctor said, waving it away. He certainly seemed much like he usually did.

‘It must be frustrating,’ Alan observed. ‘The amnesia.’

The Doctor looked down but nodded. He did not have to explain what was going on; Alan was fairly certain he understood. It was something he could bear for the most part, but sometimes his patience would run out, and like a dam breaking from the pressure of the water, he could not control the consequences, as at the inn when they had first met, or in Dresden, or last night. Alan doubted if the Doctor had even been aware of his presence properly yesterday.

‘Can I ask something?’ he said suddenly. The Doctor nodded once, looking up attentively. ‘Why did you come here yesterday? Of all places...’ He seemed to consider the question, and then said:

‘I’m not certain. I think I imagined you would have answers.’

‘I’m sorry...’ The Doctor gestured to him to let him finish.

‘I think also that...’ He stopped and thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I need some static point to concentrate on. An axle, if you like.’

‘Are you saying that that’s me?’ Alan said, equally puzzled and flattered.

‘Everyone seems to understand the world so well,’ the Doctor sighed. ‘They take it for granted. You don’t.’

‘I don’t understand...’

‘I didn’t say you did,’ the Doctor said quickly, seemingly misinterpreting what he did not understand. ‘But at least you admit that much. And because of that, you are a little closer to actually understanding it.’

‘What are you trying to say, Doctor?’ Alan asked, rubbing his temples in frustration. The Doctor thought it through, an earnest look in his eye, and then answered:

‘I think I need company. That’s what been wrong all these years. I’ve been alone too much.’ Alan felt his heart leap, because it was so close to a confession that he was needed they would ever come. He watched this strange, terrifying, beautiful man, who inspired both love and alarm in him, and tried to imagine him needing anyone whatsoever.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, otherwise lost for words. Last night still lingered, and he did not dare to reach out to touch him, in case his calm was only feigned and he would lash out again. They sat in silence for some time, until Alan spoke again. ‘You know, all this about who you are... Surely that’s something only you can tell? All we are is after all just what we define ourselves as being.’ The Doctor watched him, as if puzzled. ‘The only reason why I know who I am is because I’ve decided on some things which I think of as me,’ he explained. ‘There’s no absolute self we can fall back on.’

‘What kind of things?’ the Doctor asked, as if intrigued by the idea. Alan shrugged.

‘I’m a mathematician. A Kingsman. A long-distance runner. A homosexual. An atheist. A cat-person. None of them are all-encompassing concepts, and the only reason why they apply to me is because I _say_ they apply to me.’ He paused for a moment, knowing that he needed to treat carefully, and then asked: ‘Surely there are things like that you define as?’

The Doctor looked blank.

‘I don’t know,’ he said earnestly. ‘There’s too little.’ He looked worried again, and Alan shifted a little, uncomfortable at how earnest the discussion was.

‘I think that being the Doctor is as good an identity as any,’ he said timidly.

‘Perhaps,’ he said noncommittally, and seemed to ponder this a little more. Then he admitted: ‘But I am very fond of cats.’ Alan laughed, glad to see that the Doctor was smiling as well. On a sudden impulse he moved a little closer and the Doctor’s smile died away, as he instead started watching him in fascination. They sat still for a long moment, watching each other. Finally, Alan raised his hand to the Doctor’s cool cheek. Their lips touched tentatively, as if uncertain if their mouths fitted together as they had before. When the Doctor drew away and stroked his hair in answer to the touch on his cheek, Alan very nearly said it. He stopped himself in the last moment - he could not let himself reveal that weakness. Last night, he had seen a darker part of the Doctor, which scared him as much as this witty but mysterious part attracted him. He could not give the Doctor such an emotional hold on him... and then again, did he not already have it? Alan found it hard to believe that the Doctor did not already know, that he had not yet guessed what words lay behind that held-back breath as they lay together or a cut-off sentence when he looked at him? Surely it was obvious that he loved him?

But he could not compromise on this - he needed to keep it at least a notional secret. He would not attempt to sow lies to lead him off-track, as he had on occasion done before, by claiming that it was only about such a base need as sex and that there was nothing else, but he could not - must not - tell him. There may be dangers, some which he may not even know of.

‘The people who followed me took me in,’ he told the Doctor, moving back from his touch. ‘They asked questions about you.’

‘You were followed?’ the Doctor repeated.

‘Yes - I told you that,’ Alan said. ‘When you called.’ The man looked blank for a moment, and then shrugged, as if not having an explanation. Usually his amnesia only went up to a certain point, but it made it believable that he might forget other things as well. Besides, it was not important - only a telephone call. The Doctor did not seem to dwell on it either, but simply said:

‘What kind of questions did they ask? Who were they?’

‘They didn’t tell me the name of the organisation,’ he admitted. ‘I got a feeling that the man who interrogated me was brought in from outside - the others were really just henchmen.’ He hesitated at the memory of the picture of Neville, and then said: ‘He had my file from MI5. It had everything in it.’ The Doctor gestured to him to go on. ‘My boyfriends, for example.’ He nodded sagely, and seemed to weigh his words.

‘Greene considered you a security-risk,’ he said measuredly. A sudden bout of anger hit him, and Alan got up from the sofa and crossed the room to retrieve a cigarette.

‘Fuck Greene,’ he said forcefully as he tried to light a match and broke it instead. On the second try, he succeeded and, after taking a long drag at the lit cigarette, he felt a little calmer, but still angry enough to proclaim: ‘Greene was a stuck-up, intolerant bastard.’

‘The MI5 is full of stuck-up, intolerant bastards,’ the Doctor answered.

‘So _I’m_ a security risk,’ he said. ‘What about every single other homosexual at Bletchley Park? There was a surprising number of them, you know.’ The Doctor smiled laconically.

‘Your security-clearance was higher than Churchill’s, Alan,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s a little different, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it shouldn’t be,’ Alan snorted and sat down heavily again. ‘It shouldn’t be an issue at all.’ As if to show that he sympathised, the Doctor took his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back gratefully and took to studying the delicate hand in his grip while thinking through the issues at hand. ‘They didn’t know about us,’ he said finally; the term itself surprised him, as if he had not thought of the Doctor and him as “us” before. ‘Although I think the chap who interrogated me guessed it.’ He thought about it for a while, then asked: ‘Did you make any enemies when you tried to join the RAF during the war? Because this man really had it in for you.’

‘Don’t think I did,’ the Doctor said. ‘Although people do have a tendency to fixate on things past, I guess. Did he have a name?’

‘Barely,’ Alan answered. ‘I had to ask for it several times. He was a captain, I think, but he didn’t give me his name. He was American. The annoying, oily kind.’ The Doctor laughed at the description.

‘It’s nothing that rings a bell,’ he said. ‘I guess I’ve had some trouble with the military police and whatnot over the past few years. They’re surprisingly easy to annoy, it seems.’

‘Aye,’ Alan said and sighed.

‘But they did nothing?’

‘No, for some reason he claimed there’d been some kind of mix-up. They asked where you were, and what you were doing. I didn’t tell them anything. Not really. And then they let me go.’

‘Did they continue following you?’ the Doctor asked.

‘No,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘Gone, as if it never happened.’ He ran his fingers over the back of his hand, still pondering the events of the past few months. ‘Do you think they’re still there?’

‘Who knows?’ the Doctor said. ‘I wouldn’t think you need to worry.’

‘You need to be careful,’ Alan said suddenly, failing to hide the urgency in his voice. the Doctor smiled.

‘That’s something I’m not particularly good at,’ he admitted. ‘On the other hand, I’ve realised that I’m quite good at finding my way out of tricky situations. It does make me wonder who I was - before.’ It was merely a statement, a off-handed musing, and did not behave any of the despair he had shown about his identity earlier.

‘What happened?’ Alan asked. ‘When you were away?’ The Doctor bit his lip and then answered, voice measured:

‘I was looking for answers. It went wrong.’ With those words he got to his feet again and crossed to the table where the violin case lay. Alan was about to ask what he meant with ”wrong” and indeed how wrong it had gone - he wondered how many people had been hurt, and how many had died, because even that seemed like a possibility - but the Doctor beat him to it, and instead asked: ‘Can I ask your help with one other thing? About something I do not remember.’

‘Of course,’ Alan said, trying to hide his concern. Not certain what to expect, he watched as the Doctor opened the violin case and retrieved the instrument again. The Doctor glanced at him, to see that he had his attention, and then closed his eyes to begin to play.

It was the same piece as he had played before, with all the passion he had poured into it before. The piece was not written for the violin, and Alan got the feeling that he was reinterpreting it even as he played, even if the performance was perfect. His face took on an expression of concentration which verged on piety, and it seemed to Alan that he was watching the Doctor from outside his own world, which he was building up through the music.

The piece was not long, and when he stopped playing he stayed in the pose for a moment, bow raised and eyes closed. Finally, the real world enveloped him again, and he returned to life, turning his gaze almost imploringly to his one-man audience.

‘Well?’

‘Beautiful,’ Alan said weakly, deliberately referring to both him and the piece.

‘Do you recognise it?’ He shook his head.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not at all, I’m afraid.’ The Doctor’s shoulders slumped. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s been stuck in my head,’ he explained as he returned the violin to its case, looking worried again. ‘I can hear it so clearly... but I don’t know what it is.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was new to me.’ For a moment, the Doctor looked truly despairing, but then he shrugged and smiled weakly.

‘Worth a try,’ he said and returned to the sofa. He sat turned to him, with his legs crossed. Alan gave in to the impulse to touch his bare chest, and the Doctor grinned back, making him wonder if he looked very awed. Suddenly he remembered his observations the night before, and, frowning, he moved his hand up and pressed two fingers under the Doctor’s jaw. His pulse was just as rapid as it had been yesterday.

Letting his hand fall, he asked:

‘What’s wrong with your heart?’

‘Wrong?’ the Doctor repeated innocently.

‘It’s too fast,’ Alan said. ‘It doesn’t feel right at all.’

‘I thought we established that I don’t make sense,’ the Doctor said lightly.

‘This is different,’ Alan all but snapped. ‘It’s not some... intellectual exercise. What if it’s something serious? What if you’re ill? You should see someone about it.’ The Doctor watched him in surprise, but then his face broke into a warm smile.

‘Oh, Alan,’ he said and stroked his cheek. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

‘But I do,’ he insisted. ‘I...’ He looked away, flustered, and muttered: ‘I just don’t want anything to happen to you.’

‘Well, it won’t,’ he said, using the hand on his cheek to make him look him in the eye. ‘It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. If there was something wrong with it, there would be other symptoms. Besides, if my life doesn’t quite make sense, why should my body?’ He shrugged and said: ‘Then, there are ways where it makes perfect sense, don’t you think?’ Alan involuntarily snorted at the risque comment, even if he did not quite want to give ground. He knew he was failing rapidly, of course, especially now when the Doctor was watching him with spaniel eyes, obviously trying to break through his barriers. At last he sighed and said:

‘Alright, I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Good,’ the Doctor said and nodded. ‘That’s what I’d like to hear. Now, how about you go change your clothes and I make us some coffee?’ He pulled at his shirt and gave him an entertained look, as if he thought it both endearing and a little silly that he had not taken the time to change into pyjamas that night. Once again they hesitated, then Alan’s shoulders slumped in resignation, and they leaned in for a kiss.

When Alan came into the kitchen a little later, dressed in fresh clothes, there was a pot of coffee on the table and the Doctor was looking over his coat. The velvet had turned coarse in the rain and had developed dark blotches.

‘Does it look salvageable?’ Alan asked as he poured himself some coffee and sat down.

‘Probably not,’ the Doctor said with a sigh. ‘A pity. I quite liked this coat. I got it just after leaving Dresden.’ Then he shrugged and said: ‘I’ll just get a new one. I’ll hand this into a tailor, and they can just make a copy.’ Then he took the shirt off the hanger and started mending a gash in the sleeve. They sat in silence for some time as Alan watched the Doctor, whose pale skin shimmered in the morning light and whose face was filled with concentration as he worked, his fingers apt but delicate. He wondered how they had only kissed twice since he turned up in the garden; indeed, he did want more than to kiss. He did not want there to be the discontent which had been present earlier - he wished it did not have to be so damned complicated. He did not want there to be fear or jealousy or worry. So he did not ask about who Fitz was, and he did not prod in what had happened to the Doctor when he was away. When the Doctor finished mending his shirt and rose, he got to his feet as well and stepped in his way, so that they stood eye to eye. Something made him hesitate, and when his hesitation passed, the moment was gone.

'You still have the key to the house, don’t you?’ the Doctor asked cheerfully.

‘Of course,’ Alan murmured, suddenly embarrassed. ‘It’s in my shoe.’

'Your shoe?’ the Doctor laughed, but then sobered, probably noticing Alan’s blush, and said: ‘Good place to keep a key. I’ve done it myself on occasion, I’m sure.’ He followed him into the porch and watched him retrieve the key from under the sole. ‘Wonderful,’ he said and held the key up in line with his face. He turned and moved into the house again, and Alan followed, hanging his head at what he had let slip away. When he looked up he saw that the Doctor had stopped half-way up the stairs, his clothes slung over one arm, and was watching him with a smile. As if his gaze made him move, the man bounded back down again and, cupping his neck with his free hand, kissed him deeply. It came as such a surprise that for a moment, Alan thought he should fight him off, because there was something alarming and enticing about his eager kiss and his cool tongue. Then he reminded himself that this was just what he had thought of doing before. As they kissed, he knew that it would not go further than this now, where they were standing in the porch with the Doctor holding his clothes and his key precariously. When their lips slid apart, Alan said:

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ even if what he had wanted to say was, _I’m glad you’re safe._ The Doctor grinned and went upstairs to dress. Not ten minutes later, he had collected his assorted things from the kitchen-table and his ruined coat, and left with an absent-minded wave. Alan stood in the porch, trying to pretend to himself that he was not looking after him. At last he turned back into the house to deal with the cocoa stains on the living-room wall.


	7. Chapter 7

After the Doctor’s turbulent reappearance, things went back to normal with startling suddenness. They met as often as was possible with the Doctor, to talk of mathematics and philosophy and computers, and make love in between. Often, those things were held separate in Alan’s life, but with the Doctor, it almost seemed like they went hand in hand. None of his other lovers had understood his work as the Doctor did; the only thing which made him hesitant about discussing it with him was that he knew that the Doctor would be able to do it so much better himself. Still he never attempted to impose his ideas on him, but simply listened and lead him gently to the right answer through a mathematical form of elenchus. It was a balanced coexistence, free of the codependence he had always feared. He remembered how the Doctor had spoken of companionship in Paris during the war. The words had seemed so alien to him at the time, and he had wondered that the Doctor had referred to something else when he had asked, ‘do you often feel the lack of a partner in life?’ In light of his admission of needing, as he had put it, an axle, Alan thought that already then he had started to realise what loneliness was doing to him. He wondered if things had gone differently with the Strangers and the people who had died if he had not off-handedly answered his question then but understood that what he had taken as a flippant inquiry into his marital status was really a first awkward attempt at intimacy.

The Doctor did not often stay in Manchester, and Alan knew of several occasions when he had left the country; how he managed it without a passport, he did not know. He imagined him walking high mountains and crossing vast plains, a wanderer to rival Caspar David Friedrich’s, always watching the stars and the constellations turning over his head, and axioms and languages and stories inside it whirling in unison. He wondered if there were other axles, other companions whom he would stay with, but he tried not to dwell on it. Occasionally during the absences the Doctor wrote to him, but he never spoke of his travels. They seemed rather tokens to show that he had not forgotten him. They all ended with some apologetic phrase, sometimes simply saying he hoped that he was well, sometimes saying that he hoped he had not been away too long. Too long for what Alan never understood, and he was given little opportunity to ask the Doctor, as he always acted oblivious about the letters. Alan played along with the charade and stopped thanking him for them, and secretly treasured the hurriedly written notes with the unreadable signature.

There had been no letters during the summer, but Alan was not particularly worried, even if he was not certain where the Doctor had gone off to. It was July and the sun blazing over Manchester was regularly making his office uninhabitably hot. In an attempt at preventing this, he had dropped the blinds and shut out the sun, which still peaked through and warmed his back as he read through the first draft on his machine intelligence paper. He was weighing on his chair, feeling rather pleased at himself to have managed to fit in a mention of the absurd idea of a sonnet about the Forth Bridge, when his concentration was disturbed by commotion outside his door. There were running feet and slamming doors; when he heard raised voices and Miss Popplewell’s protests he rose from his desk. Still he was only half-way to the door when it burst open, and the intruder bounded on him, a lion with a golden mane. As the door slammed shut behind him, the Doctor collided into Alan and pushed their lips together. The action was desperate and violent, as he grabbed his arms so hard that he thought he would bruise, but there was an overwhelming passion as well. Then, as quickly as they had collided, the Doctor broke the kiss and took his face between his hands, holding it just far enough away that he could focus on him. His cheeks were tear-stained and his eyes were wild.

‘You’re alright,’ he sobbed. ‘Thank God, you’re alright.’

‘Of course I am,’ Alan said, bewildered, grabbing at the Doctor as desperately as he to him, worried for what had made him so agitated. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ But there was no answer - he simply pulled him close and kissed him again. While still embracing, they moved around the room, as if in an awkward dance; Alan fumbled with the key and heard the lock snap, and an unguarded movement knocked the key out of the door. It rolled across the floor and disappeared in under the desk, but Alan was no longer paying attention. The Doctor, leading the dance, all but slammed his body into the wall, pinning him there, and kissed him with a kind of passion he had never displayed before. At some level, Alan perhaps knew that he should object, or at least ask him what had agitated him so, but instead he kissed back and ran his hands down the Doctor’s back, tracing the spine and the fine musculature under the coat, as the Doctor in turn untucked his shirt and snaked his hands in under the fabric. As far as Alan knew, at that very moment this was all that existed - the Doctor, the velvet locks crushed against his cheeks, the stinging salt of tears not his own, the eager mouth on his, the hands tracing the muscles of his chest and then abandoning their wanderings to work on his belt. He stopped kissing him, and Alan stared as he instead went down on his knees, now undoing the buttons in his trousers. There was a moment of disbelief at what was happening, but then the Doctor undid the last button and Alan was too overcome to watch. He was aware of the Doctor’s mouth, and his knees shaking, and red lights flashing before his eyes. As soon as he was spent and had been released, he sat down on the floor. Only the Doctor’s steadying hands in his stopped him from simply collapsing. Greedily he pulled the Doctor into an embrace, and kept hold of him, his head pressed against his shoulder and his hand buried in his soft locks, as he undid his trousers in turn. The Doctor pressed his face against his neck, his breath hot against his skin, and as his breath hitched as if from a sob he tightened his grip around him. They stayed locked in the embrace for a long moment, before the Doctor lifted his head and drew back just enough to reach the handkerchief in his pocket. Alan watched as he wiped off his hand and worked on the stain on his own trouser leg, before shrugging and leaving it. The skin around the Doctor’s eyes still looked red, but there was a look of relief on his face.

‘Are you alright, Doctor?’ Alan asked, reaching up and stroking his hair with his free hand.

‘Yes, yes,’ the Doctor said with a shrug, his voice rather raw from weeping. Then he looked up and gave him a reassuring smile. He tucked his soiled handkerchief into his pocket, and Alan took his hand. He squeezed it hard. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe.’

‘Why on earth wouldn’t I be?’ he asked, but the Doctor only hung his head, showing that he would not answer. All he could do was to sigh; if he did not want to tell him what danger he thought might be or have been threatening him, he seemed more than reluctant to tell.

‘Can we get out of here?’ the Doctor wondered, looking around as if trying to find the door.

‘Of course,’ Alan answered, all thoughts of his machine intelligence paper gone. When they rose, the Doctor pulled him close again. The kiss was slower and more measured this time, with none of the hurry which he had displayed before. There was a quality to the Doctor which Alan thought he had not seen before - a kind of sorrowful tenderness. When he pulled back, he looked tired, and the smile he gave him was careworn.

‘Come on,’ he said softly, pressing Alan’s hand between both of his.

It was a long way out to Wilmslow, one more suited for cycling than for walking. Alan lead his bike, and the Doctor walked beside him in comfortable silence. Occasionally Alan would glance over to the Doctor, and see him look around as if he had never noticed this world before. A few times, he found him looking his way, a secretive smile on his lips. Once, he dared to hold his gaze for a little while, and the Doctor laid his hand on his, where it rested on the handlebar. Finally he had to look away; the tension between them was mounting again. Vainly he wondered what was bringing it about. They had only seen each other last month - they had been away from each other longer than that many times. So why was it suddenly so unbearable not to touch him? Had the Doctor’s uncalled-for agitation at the department really affected him that much? It was as if the Doctor’s need to know that he was alright was now mirrored in Alan, who felt that he needed to make sure that nothing had befallen the Doctor. The hand on his seemed to block out all other perception, as if it were the only thing that mattered...

 _Get a grip on yourself,_ he admonished himself. _He’s not the most important thing in the world. You were completely fine with writing jokes about the Forth Bridge in your paper only an hour ago!_ As if to illustrate to himself that he was above such things, he chose a proof at random and tried to run it through his mind. Even if he remembered the whole thing, he stumbled over it when trying to recite it. He looked at the Doctor’s hand on his and decided that for now, he would give into the fixation. At the moment, mathematics could rot for all he cared.

When they reached the house, Alan gave the Doctor the keys so that he might open the door as he locked up his bike. The small delay annoyed him, but when he had finally clicked the padlock into place, he saw the Doctor watch him in the doorway, a look of bemused patience on his face. Alan just ushered him in. Even as the door closed behind them, they were kissing again, now with a hunger reminiscent of that in the office. Even drawing apart to go upstairs felt like an unwelcome interruption. The previous encounter had been too brief, a mere rushed improvisation. Before the rattle of the curtain rings had subsided, the rest of the world had stopped existing. The department, the machine intelligence paper, the rest of Manchester and everything else ceased to have any impact on them. He let go of his worries, surrendering to the maelstrom he was caught up in. He was aware of the paisley silk under his fingers, the buttons’ shapes as he undid them, the tie-pin falling to the floor with a soft _clink_ and the rustling of cloth as they jointly discarded the Doctor’s shirt. The Doctor was the one with his back to the wall, kissing and being kissed, commanding in his docility. Alan’s clothes took less time to get rid of, with no pins and cuff-links and neckties to worry about. After he had moved the books which he had been looking through the night before and tossed Podgy the bear into an armchair, they tumbled onto the bed, kissing as if they were trying to devour one another. They only broke the kiss for Alan to remove the Doctor’s high socks, tossing both stockings and garters triumphantly onto the floor before resuming. They became a tangle of limbs, desperate to merge for a moment in time. Alan remembered little of it later, as if was too otherworldly an experience to fasten in memory. His strongest recollection was the Doctor’s face as he screamed his name. He had a feeling that he had thought, _thank God I don’t live in lodgings anymore,_ but he did not know how he had managed to do anything so advanced as to think.

At last, they lay shoulder to shoulder, catching their breath. They lay there for a long time, simply panting and becoming aware that they were two people again. At last the Doctor exhaled markedly and edged closer to prop his head up against his chest. Alan pushed his fingers into his hair, damp with sweat. Then on second thought he put his arms around his properly, an embrace he happily returned.

‘Do you think we can stay in this bed for the next... hm, day or so?’ the Doctor murmured.

‘Why not?’ Alan said, and laughed a little. He had been planning to write some solid arguments for his paper. This was a far more pleasant pursuit.

They forgot about time, and let the bed be their haven. They dozed, and when they woke they kissed and talked of trivial things. The earlier rush was gone, and they were content simply to lie there, slowly exploring each other’s bodies with no purpose but the exploration itself. What must have been many hours later, they put the bare necessary clothes on again for an improvised lunch. They ended up having it sitting on the kitchen floor, next to the table. The Doctor told him of when he had gone to sea in the thirties (‘dear God, a sailor! I should have known!’) and how the sunsets had looked on the other side of the world.

‘Do you ever wonder how the sunsets must look on other planets?’ he said as he helped himself to pickle; Alan had never witnessed actions and words less connected. He thought for a brief moment of the Strangers, but did not mention it.

‘I guess that it must be different, depending on the size of the planet and the proximity to the star that the planet revolves around - not to mention the nature of the atmosphere...’

‘Are you suggesting making an equation to calculate a sunset?’ the Doctor said, watching him playfully. ‘Surely that takes the beauty out of it?’

‘Why would it?’ Alan asked earnestly. ‘If it were possible to write it - and I don’t think it is, not at present, at least - it wouldn’t take the beauty away at all. Simply... explain it. Rewrite it into another form.’

‘Isn’t there beauty in the unknown?’ the Doctor wondered.

‘It’s a different kind of beauty,’ he answered. ‘Besides, the sunset isn’t unknown to us. We understand the mechanism, even if we do not have a formula for it.’ There was an uncertain look in the Doctor’s eye, so he reached out and cupped his cheek.

‘I didn’t mean me,’ the Doctor said dumbly. Alan smiled.

‘Really?’ he said playfully. ‘Well, you’re beautiful either way.’

‘Don’t be a tease,’ the Doctor said and smiled, dipping his head to hide it.

‘Me? A tease?’ Alan snorted. He guided the Doctor’s lips into a kiss, and when they drew back he whispered:

‘Shall we go upstairs again?’

They did, and soon the clothes were on the floor again, but instead of kissing him properly, Alan simply planted a peck on his lips, then one on his forehead, his eyelids, his cheek-bones. He systematically worked his way over his face and then down his neck. As he was kissing each collar-bone, the Doctor asked bemusedly:

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘I’m going to prove it to you,’ Alan explained, stopping the kisses for a moment. ‘I’m going to kiss every part of you that makes you beautiful.’

‘Map me out, you mean?’ the Doctor said teasingly. ‘Get research material to write up an equation to explain me?’

‘I don’t think anything as worldly as an equation could ever describe you,’ he answered and started kissing his way down the Doctor’s sternum.

‘Equations aren’t _worldly_ ,’ the Doctor objected, and Alan gave him a withering look, hoping he would understand the relativity of the situation. If he did, he did not say, but instead raised another question: ‘When you said you were going to kiss every part of me that makes me beautiful...’

‘Well, every physical part. Yes?’

‘Did you mean _every_ part of me?’ They looked at each other innocently, and then Alan asked:

‘Any objections?’

‘No, not really,’ was the rather mortified answer. The Doctor attempted to keep up some kind of commentary of his progress for some time, offering observations such as, ‘there’s an aboriginal tribe in Australia who have that as one of the things they tell beauty from, you know’ or ‘what on earth is so special about my left _knee_?’, but eventually Alan’s actions caught up with him, and he could do little but pant and writhe. At last he beckoned him up; for once, the Doctor’s approach was absolutely forthright. Then they returned to a simple embrace, which they kept for a long time. When the Doctor finally started to disentangle himself, Alan sat up and took the opportunity to light a cigarette. He offered the Doctor one, he declined. As they lay down again and the Doctor propped his head up against Alan’s chest, he explained:

‘It’s a filthy old habit.’

‘Surely not,’ he said.

‘Oh yes,’ the Doctor snorted. ‘I keep telling that to Fitz, but the next thing I know, the Tardis is filled with tobacco smoke...’ He fell silent when he caught sight of his bedfellow’s furrowed brow.

‘Who’s Fitz?’ Alan asked, remembering the note he had found in the Doctor’s pocket on Bonfire Night. It had been signed with that very name...

‘Oh, just a chap I happen to know,’ the Doctor said, as if trying to sound casual. ‘We’ve travelled around. A bit, you know.’ Alan shrugged off the Doctor and sat up, making a show of tapping the ash off the cigarette, even if had not had time to burn very far at all; he did not want him to see his face, in case in betrayed anything.

He knew better - he had _told_ himself that it did not matter - but he still could not resist to ask.

‘Are there others?’

‘Others?’ the Doctor asked, sitting up as well.

‘Other men.’

‘Whom I travel with?’ he said, as if he didn’t understand.

‘Whom you sleep with.’ The silence was enough of an answer. When he thought of it, there was no guarantee that the Doctor only slept with men either... He damned himself for his idiocy - it had not been fair of him to ask. After all, he slept with men other than the Doctor - if he were not faithful, why should he assume or hope that the Doctor was? But none of the others were the same, he thought. The Doctor was special, in some other category than everyone else, and he wished that the Doctor felt something similar to him...

His train of thought was interrupted when he felt the Doctor’s fingers on his, and before he knew it, the cigarette had been picked out of his grip. First he thought that he was going to stub it out in protest, but then he realised that that was not the case. Instead, the Doctor had raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled the smoke. Alan stared, transfixed at the sight, as he lowered it again and made a face.

‘Disgusting,’ he said, but did not cough. Alan’s eyes were not on the cigarette, but the Doctor’s lips, as if he had never noticed them before. Experimentally, he drew a finger over them; the Doctor let him and then flipped the cigarette around for him to inhale again. Then without being quite certain how the transition had happened, they were kissing again, and all those other people was forgotten.

The sun started to set. When it was entirely dark, Alan curled up against the Doctor and felt himself drifting off. The Doctor in turn squirmed and prodded him on the shoulder.

‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he told him. Alan grumbled in answer and buried his face in the pillow. The Doctor seemed to have made his mind up and started nipping playfully at his neck to get his attention. ‘Come _on_ ,’ he said and pushed at his shoulder with his head, like a cat would. ‘I want to talk.’

‘I need to sleep, Doctor,’ Alan muttered, refusing to move. He had no idea how long they had been in bed, or indeed how long since the Doctor had stormed into his office, but the events of the day had drained him completely.

‘Come on,’ the Doctor said, sounding rather like a fractious child. ‘Don’t be a bore. Talk to me.’ Alan sighed; he had known that he would give in eventually.

‘Oh, alright,’ he said and sat up, pretending to be more annoyed at it than he really was. ‘But let me make some tea first. Else I’ll fall asleep mid-sentence.’ He grabbed a shirt from the floor, but when he brought it up to the moonlight, he saw that it was the Doctor’s. He was just about to drop it when the Doctor said:

‘Wear it.’ It seemed almost a command, but it was that of a lover wanting to be pleased. Throwing him a mock-exasperated look, he put it on, the fine cloth and starched collar unfamiliar against his skin. When he returned, tea tray balanced on one arm, he saw that the Doctor had put on a pyjamas jacket, which had been under the pillow, and pulled it down so that it just covered him. It was as if they were wearing each other, children playing dress-up in each other’s clothes. The Doctor must have seen it too, because he smiled knowingly as he scooted over to give him room for the tray. They sat in the bed with it between them, clasping their mugs, sometimes reaching out to touch each other’s hands.

‘What’s your first memory?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Playing with the gardener’s son. I had a toy-boat, which I loved... He broke it, and I didn’t talk to him for weeks. I tried to bury the boat in the flower-bed, so that it would grow mended...’ The Doctor smiled.

‘How very _Waste Land_.’ Alan frowned, and the Doctor recited, his soft voice filling the room:

> There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, ‘Stetson!  
> You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!  
> That corpse you planted last year in your garden,  
> Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?  
> Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?  
> O keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend of men,  
> Or with his nail he’ll dig it up again!  
> You! Hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!’

They were silent for some time, and then the Doctor added:

‘That last bit is Baudelaire, you see. From _Au lecteur_.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ Alan asked, impressed and slightly intimidated by his recitation. The Doctor looked at him, and the smile he had expected was not there.

‘Some things.’

‘I didn’t mean...’ Alan said, taking his hand. The Doctor shook his head to show that no harm had been done.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said softly. ‘Not just now.’ Then he said: ‘I’ve always admired the logic of children. What you did was actually just to generalise an observation. You had seen things growing out of the ground after having been planted. Why should it not be possible to mend your toy boat in such a way?’

‘I would hardly call it great science,’ Alan snorted.

‘When did you realise you wanted to become a scientist?’ the Doctor asked, watching him with a bemused glint in his eye. Alan did not have to think about the answer.

‘It’s always been what I’ve enjoyed most, but ultimately, it was because of Chris.’ The Doctor raised a questioning eyebrow, and suddenly Alan realised that he had not told him of this his first love. ‘We were at school together,’ he explained. ‘He was the first boy I ever fell in love with. All I wanted was to be worthy of his company.’

‘What happened?’ the Doctor asked, brow furrowed.

‘He died,’ Alan said simply. ‘That was what finally made my mind up properly. If he couldn’t do all those things, then I should.’

‘It seems to me that you do this because of more than just a childhood promise,’ the Doctor pointed out. He nodded in response, remembering how most of the time, he had felt that he was not worthy of Chris’ company at all; his own mind was slow in comparison to Chris’, his ideas worldly and dull. Now it struck him with renewed feeling what the scenario reminded him of. In retrospect, he knew that he had probably been Chris’ equal, perhaps (although he shied away from the idea) his superior in some cases. What was the case with the Doctor was the same as what he had perceived to be the case with Chris. Had that ghost finally let go of him? The thought was terrifying.

‘I hope that it is still that way,’ Alan said. The Doctor smiled, as if admiring his insistence.

‘I wish I remembered my first love,’ he then said. ‘It’s the kind of thing that defines you... The kind of person you are, and the kind of person you look for. It would be a valuable piece of the puzzle.’ Alan pressed his hand, knowing that nothing he could say would help. The topic of the Doctor’s amnesia was one he could not approach in any way which felt satisfactory, and it always left him feeling frustrated. He was happy that he did not press the point, but instead he asked:

‘Do you ever feel like escaping? Just letting go of everything and running until there is no way you can run anymore.’

‘Yes,’ Alan admitted. ‘Constantly. Or, well, often, especially before.’ He sipped his tea and explained: ‘This is the first proper house I’ve lived in since I left home. It’s always been a small room and suitcases. It made running easy. Mind you, some of it was wonderful. I still think Cambridge is more home than Wilmslow. But still... it’s not really a life.’ He looked up at him. ‘You?’

‘It’s all I do,’ the Doctor said with a shrug. ‘Never stopped running.’

‘Do you think you could ever settle down?’ He laughed incredulously.

‘No, not really,’ he admitted. ‘Stay for a while, yes. Pop in now and then for a visit, certainly. But stay? No. That’s impossible. I’ve tried, but...’ Alan had known that that would have been the answer, but he was surprised to realise that he was relieved. It would rather have been strange if the Doctor had admitted to being willing to settle down. It would have made him less mysterious, and would have seemed quite out of character. The Doctor reached out and took his hand, running his thumb tenderly over the knuckles. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to escape together?’ he said, so hushed that Alan was not certain if he had meant to say it.

‘Yes,’ he answered and pressed his hand. ‘It would be.’ But the Doctor broke the grip, and looked away.

‘Too bad that we are bound by our own duties.’

‘Doctor,’ Alan said and pushed the locks out of his face. ‘Don’t think that.’ He smiled and nodded, as if giving in.

‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘All those places you’ve visited - it must be wonderful,’ Alan said after a few minutes of silence. Now the Doctor grinned as if he had a secret.

‘Yes - it is truly wonderful.’

‘All the places I’ve ever been to have felt mundane,’ he admitted. ‘My father sometimes talked of India. It seemed like another world.’

‘India is beautiful,’ the Doctor said, ‘but no less mundane or more exotic than England. At least, not to me.’ Alan watched him for a moment, and then said:

‘You really see it all from the outside, don’t you?’

‘I guess I do,’ he said and smiled enigmatically. Alan tried to imagine how the Doctor saw other people, who were all duller and much more stupid than he was. No wonder he felt lost; most of the people around him would not understand half of what he said. Come to think of it, Alan did not understand much of it either. But he must do something which made that constant display of stupidity bearable, considering that he put up with it...

Suddenly the Doctor put down his mug heavily upsetting the surface of the tea so it splashed over the tray. Then in one swift motion, he took hold of both Alan’s hands and pressed them hard.

‘Doctor?’ He did not react, but was staring unseeingly down on the tray. It was as if he had just realised something awful.

‘It’s going to happen again,’ he said finally, voice filled with despair.

‘What is?’ When he did not react, Alan leaned forward and pressed his hands to get his attention. ‘Doctor, what’s going to happen again?’ He looked up, his face hauntingly pale.

‘I thought that if I came back, it’d be as if it never happened,’ he explained, still sounding agitated. ‘I would somehow undo it... but that’s not possible. Now I’ll always know that it will be coming, even when it’s happened...’

‘You’re not making any sense, Doctor,’ he said, but the Doctor only hung his head, and his shoulders were shaking. Promptly he freed his hands, moved the tea-tray and pulled him into a hug. He did not understand what the Doctor had said, and as he held him he tried to interpret what he had said. His attempts to make the Doctor explain went unheard. When the Doctor finally raised his head again, he stroked his cheek and said:

‘This is the one thing I can’t explain. Don’t think less of me for it. You’d thank me if you knew what I’m holding from you.’ Alan could not feel help a little offended at the patronising statement. It must have shown, because the Doctor took hold of his shoulders and said urgently: ‘Please, please, Alan, believe me. It doesn’t bare explaining... Besides, it’s not...’ The final word died away, in the way a lie which hurt too much to tell did: ‘important.’ They were silent for a long time, not moving, until the Doctor said, sounding very sober: ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.’ He let go of him, as if embarrassed. ‘That didn’t really make sense, did it?’

‘No, it really didn’t,’ Alan said reservedly. But when the Doctor averted his gaze in that way, he looked so vulnerable that his odd, patronising comments were easy to forget. It must have been a sudden whim - a flight of fancy brought on from whatever stress which had lead him to believe that Alan had been in danger in the first place. ‘It’s alright,’ he said, reaching out and taking his hand. He accepted the gesture gratefully, and enclosed his hand in his grip. ‘I think it’s time to sleep now,’ Alan said finally. ‘You might not want to admit it, but you’re probably as exhausted as I am.’

‘Yes, sleep,’ the Doctor said and rubbed his eyes. He only stopped doing so to watch Alan shrug off his dress-shirt, and when he lay down, he took off the pyjama-jacket he had been wearing, so that they lay with skin touching skin. Alan was drifting off when the Doctor’s lips touched his ears and he whispered, ‘when you truly need me, I’ll be there.’ At least he thought so; it might all have been a dream.

***

When Alan woke up, he was afraid that the Doctor had left over the night. He could not feel the weight of another body in the bed. Then he heard the sound of another person’s breathing, and when he blinked sleep out of his eyes and sat up, he realised that the Doctor had not left at all, but was sitting on the bedside, adjusting his garters.

‘Good morning,’ Alan said and reached out, drawing his hand down his bare back. It was not quite a flinch, but a reaction of distracted surprise.

‘Good morning, Alan,’ the Doctor answered, pausing oddly before the greeting.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked, edging a little closer. The Doctor straightened his stockings in a preoccupied manner, and it dawned on Alan what was happening.

‘I should go,’ the Doctor said, his voice restrained.

‘You don’t have to,’ Alan said quickly, avoiding saying, _you really shouldn’t_. ‘They don’t need me back at the department today...’

‘No,’ he interrupted and rubbed his face, still not turning to look at him. ‘I need to go.’ The locks fell into his eyes, shielding him from view, but his emotion - sadness, not rejection - was still tangible.

‘Doctor...’ Alan said and reached out, brushing his hair aside. Those light eyes met his defiantly through a film of tears. In one swift motion, he pulled him into a tight embrace and buried his face against his shoulder.

‘Damn you,’ he whispered, like one does when one does not dare to say anything much more tender. They clung to each other, and Alan tried to pretend as if he did not feel the shaking of the Doctor’s shoulders and the tears against his skin.

‘If you don’t want to go, why do you have to?’ he asked. The Doctor simply held him closer, because there was no answer to be given, as Alan knew too well. There were things more complicated than “want” or “could”. There was a finality about the way he held him, and his sadness slowly changed into a cold, sharp acceptance of what was about to happen. ‘I love you, you know,’ he said, without hesitating. The embrace tightened a little, and the Doctor whispered:

‘Yes.’ Alan hugged back. Finally the Doctor let go of him and once again turning away started dressing, his movements quick and curt. Staying in bed felt too awkward, so Alan rose and found his dressing-gown. There was something which glinted on the floor-boards; he bent down to pick it up, and realised that it was the Doctor’s neck-tie pin.

‘Here,’ he said, offering it to him. He looked up from tying the cravat, and seemed for a moment caught out, simply staring at the pin. Alan wondered if the Doctor was going to go to pieces, as he had on Bonfire Night, or perhaps launch himself at him, but finally he swallowed to compose himself and took the pin from him, their fingers brushing together.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered hoarsely. Then he did up the buttons of the waistcoat, checked that his pocket-watch was in place and shrugged on his coat. ‘There.’ He looked around the room, once again lost, and then turned away to the door. Alan followed him down the stairs in silence.

At the door, the Doctor turned and smiled melancholically.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Good-bye, Alan.’ He took an awkward step forward and looked up at him, before drawing him into a kiss. It was slow and tender, but there was something desperate about it. _He’s kissing me good-bye,_ Alan thought. _He’s never kissed me good-bye before._ When they broke the kiss, they kept their faces close for some time, and then, after pecking him on the lips a last time, the Doctor drew back and opened the door. When he was half-way through it, Alan reached out, exclaiming:

‘Wait!’ The Doctor stopped, looking at him expectantly. ‘You... you’re... you’re coming back, aren’t you?’ he stammered. The Doctor smiled sorrowfully, and despite his answer, ‘you’ll see me again,’ Alan knew as he watched him step over the threshold that the Doctor was leaving for good. He caught the door and watched his progress down the street. Once he turned his head, and smiled apologetically when he realised that he was being observed. The figure hunched its shoulders and walked on, disappearing in the distance. Alan closed the door and rested his forehead against it in silent despair.

Much time must have passed when he finally drew back from the door and made his way upstairs. His actions were completely involuntary; he passed through the house like an automaton, pulling the sheets from the bed, gathering his clothes from last night, tapping up a bath, dressing himself. When he came to again, he was sitting on the unmade bed, staring at the wall. He suddenly felt that he could not stay in the house, and going to the department was out of the question. With the determination of a sleep-walker, he collected his wallet, coat and hat, and set off.

***

It was early afternoon when he finally reached Cambridge. The college was blessedly silent, as it always was during the long vacation. He just hoped that Robin was in residence; he considered asking the porters, but he did not want to hear if he was not. Since being billeted together with him, Robin Gandy, who was not only an excellent mathematician but also a decent kind of person, had become his prime confidant. Whenever an issue had to be mulled over, Robin was the person to listen, and this was certainly such a time.

He entered the great arch-formed building which cut off the view to the river and ascended the stairs; for once he did not have time to consider the cheap wooden interior, quickly built when College had run out of money for the building. As he climbed the last stair, he saw that the outer door was open - Robin was at home. He took the last few steps at a run and banged on the door so vigorously that a voice from inside the room shouted:

‘Alright, alright, I’m coming!’ The door opened, and Robin, an unlit pipe between his teeth, peered out at him. He seemed so surprised that he almost dropped the pipe. ‘Alan! What are you doing here?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ Alan answered, and found his own voice raw and even more high-pitched than usual.

‘You’d better come in,’ Robin said, stepping aside and letting him in. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked urgently. It took Alan a few moments to articulate it.

‘I think the Doctor’s left me,’ he finally said. Robin, who must have been holding his breath, exhaled and made a gesture with his hands in an attempt to ground himself.

‘I thought someone had died,’ he said, giving him a reprimanding look. ‘Right, I’m putting the kettle on. Do you want some toast or something? You don’t look very well.’

‘Famished,’ Alan admitted, realising that he had not eaten all day. As Robin vanished into the kitchen, he threw his coat over a chair and sat down on the coach, resting his face in his hands. Robin reappeared with a pot of tea and a plate of toast, and as he started trying to find cups, he said:

‘Right. What’s happened?’

‘I think he’s left. Completely and utterly,’ Alan said, finding it hard to not reveal how much it upset him.

‘Alright,’ Robin said patiently. ‘And who is this bloke?’

‘You’ve met him. On VE-Day, remember?’

‘What, that chap with the hair?’ he said, surprised. ‘Was he your boy-friend?’

‘Not really then,’ Alan admitted. ‘Don’t know if he really was my boy-friend at all.’

‘So...’ Robin gestured with his pipe, showing him to continue. When his friend did not, he threw his arms out and asked: ‘Then what is it? Is it just sex?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Alan answered, feeling rather offended. ‘It’s just... very odd.’

‘Right.’ He paused to pour them tea and nudge the plate of toast towards Alan to make him eat it. Feeling a little patronised, he nevertheless accepted it. When he had eaten the toast, Robin lit his pipe and asked: ‘So... how long has it been going on, then?’

‘Oh, on and off since the end of the war. Just didn’t quite know what was going on a lot of the time. Recently, though - the last year or so...’ He trailed off again, staring at his tea-cup.

‘What’s the matter?’ Robin asked softly.

‘He’s different,’ Alan admitted. ‘From the others.’

‘Different in what way?’ he pressed. ‘Different like Joan was different? Or different...?’

‘Like Chris,’ Alan filled in. ‘But... more. I can’t explain it. Nothing feels real when he’s not there. Whenever he’s not, it all just blurs together.’ Robin stared at him and then rubbed his eyes despairingly.

‘Oh, Alan,’ he sighed. ‘You and your rotten luck with love.’ They sat in silence for some time, then Robin asked: ‘Is it requited?’

‘I... I think so,’ he answered, thinking of how the Doctor had held him a little closed when he said he loved him. ‘In some way, at least.’

‘And you do sleep together?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘What makes you think he’s walked out on you, then? Did you fight?’

‘If only,’ Alan sighed, and Robin gave him an amused look. ‘I have no idea what happened. I wouldn’t say it was anything I did, but... When he left this morning, I just knew that he wasn’t going to come back. He said he would, but I think he lied.’ Robin sighed, rose and moved to sit beside him. He patted his hand a little awkwardly.

‘Just leaving and not making clear that you’re not coming back is a very cowardly thing to do.’

‘The Doctor is certainly not a coward,’ Alan laughed.

‘Tell me about him,’ Robin prompted.

‘He’s... absolutely brilliant,’ he said and could not help smiling. ‘He knows everything, it seems - it’s absolutely breathtaking. People tend to throw around the word “genius”, but he truly is. I feel so _stupid_ when he’s around, and it’s such a relief.’ He looked at Robin, intent that he understand. ‘The Doctor is brilliant and beautiful and brave. There’s no one like him.’ Robin laughed a little.

‘Quite the catch,’ he said. ‘Sounds like your kind of man.’

‘Well, yes,’ Alan said, remembering suddenly how the Doctor had kissed him good-bye. ‘I wish I knew more about him, but...’

‘What do you mean?’ Robin asked, frowning. When he did not answer, he turned and looked at him. ‘Why do you keep calling him “Doctor”? Unless there’s some dirty reason which I really don’t want to hear...’

‘ _Robin!_ No, there isn’t,’ Alan answered, appalled. ‘It’s what he’s called.’ Robin stared at him.

‘What he’s called?’ he repeated. ‘First name: The, surname: Doctor?’ They stared at each other for a moment longer, until Robin almost shouted: ‘Are you telling me you don’t know his name?’

‘ _He_ doesn’t know his name!’ Alan shouted back. They both lapsed into stunned silence. Robin at last gave a disbelieving snort and got to his feet. ‘Look, I’m not making it up,’ Alan said urgently. ‘He doesn’t know who he is. He can’t remember. Something happened - he has no idea what - and he lost his memory.’ Robin smacked his hands against his head in frustration.

‘How can you be so _fucking_ stupid, Alan?’ he exclaimed. ‘How likely a story is that? Memory-loss, for goodness’ sake! That sounds like something out of a bad novel...’

‘Well, it’s true,’ Alan insisted. ‘Why would he lie to me about it?’

‘Why would he lie?’ Robin repeated, staring at him in disbelief. ‘For goodness’ sake, Alan - how do you know he’s not a spy?’

‘A spy for whom!?’

‘Anyone,’ he answered. ‘You haven’t been talking, have you?’

‘Of course I haven’t!’ he said. ‘What do you take me for, Robin?’

‘Right now, a fool,’ Robin answered sincerely. ‘Isn’t it the perfect scenario? A mysterious, brilliant scientist - you were bound to fall for him, take him into confidence...’

‘It’s not like that,’ Alan protested. ‘It can’t be. A spy wouldn’t claim to have lost his memory - he’d have a cover-story, a false name, things like that. And who would send in a spy who is so inconspicuous? You’ve seen him - he acts and dresses nothing like other people.’ He sighed and leaned back, trying to calm down. ‘Look, Robin,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve thought about it. I’ve wondered... but it makes no sense that he’d be a spy. Yes, sometimes he asks too many questions, but it’s rather that he doesn’t understand that he shouldn’t ask...’

‘That’s the infatuation talking, Alan,’ Robin warned him.

‘No, it’s not,’ he objected. ‘The Doctor isn’t a spy, for Britain or Russia or anyone. He doesn’t fit in anywhere. I can’t explain why that is, but he has told me quite plainly that he has no idea where he’s from. I’ve seen him go to pieces over it... He couldn’t have acted that. People don’t act out things like that. It’s like he’s searching for who and what he is, and he still has no idea of it.’

‘What are you saying?’ Robin said and wriggled his fingers in a monster-impression. ‘That he’s from outer space?’

‘Don’t make fun of it,’ Alan told him. ‘I don’t know where he’s from, or who he is... But he’s harmless. Granted, sometimes a little disturbed, but never violent - just depressed. Besides, even if he is just a madman, what harm can he do?’ Robin sighed and looked at him for a long while.

‘You’re really beyond saving, aren’t you, Alan?’ he said at last, the malice gone from his voice. Where there had been annoyance, there was now worry.

‘I guess I am,’ Alan answered with a sigh. Robin crossed to the couch and collapsed beside him with a deep sigh. They were silent for a long time, until Alan said: ‘Besides, he’s gone now. He won’t be doing any more _spying_ on me, by the looks of it.’ He felt his friend look at him, and he averted his eyes. He failed to stop a tear from running down his cheek. Robin put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding guilty. ‘All that worry about security hasn’t worn off yet...’ Alan nodded to show that he understood. ‘Alan, are you crying?’

‘Of course I’m bloody crying,’ he answered angrily. ‘He didn’t even say he loved me back when I finally admitted it to him. I’ll never know if he really cared after all.’ Robin shifted and said:

‘I’m sure he did. Or _he’d_ be the idiot.’ Alan looked at him, and was rather glad to see that he was smiling. ‘Oh, to hell with it,’ Robin said and hugged him. Alan gladly accepted it, relieved that he had let go of the issue of the Doctor’s identity.

When Robin let go of him, he got to his feet and took his coat.

‘You need to get drunk,’ he told him. ‘Fancy going to the Eagle? See, I have a theory that in situations like this, alcohol is really the only answer. Well, alcohol or WAAFs, but you don’t really appreciate uniforms properly.’

‘Eagle it is,’ Alan said and lead the way towards the pub.


	8. Chapter 8

There was no scientific way to prove it, of course, but Alan suspected that important events, both universal and personal, tended to converge, if not on the same day, then very close together. He had started school the same day as the Great Strike. His father had died only a few days before India became independent. And the same day as _Computing Machinery and Intelligence_ was published, the Doctor came back.

Alan was in his study, leafing through the off-print of the article, terrified that he would find some silly mistake in it, when the door-bell rang. He rose, still looking through the off-print, and made his way downstairs. He only looked up when the door had swung open.

For a long moment, the Doctor stared at him and he stared at the Doctor. Then the article fell from his hands and he threw his arms around him. The Doctor returned his embrace, surprised. When Alan finally let go of him, he realised that the Doctor was looking at him as if he did not understand.

‘I thought...’ he said, trying to explain, but fell silent. He did not want to admit that he had assumed that he had lied, so he simply smiled at him and showed him in. ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ he said when the door had closed and he had picked up the article, putting it aside at once.

‘It’s been a while,’ the Doctor said with a shrug. He looked worn, not by age, but with experience. The smile which had answered his was weak and forced, and it unsettled him.

They sat down in the living-room with a pot of tea. There was an awkwardness about the situation which was new; the Doctor made no attempt to touch him. At last Alan reached out and took his hand, and was relieved when he did not object, but accepted the grip.

‘You look tired,’ Alan said at last.

‘Well,’ the Doctor said noncommittally, ‘I’ve been traveling around the last five months. It’s bound to take its toll.’

‘Where have you been?’ He shrugged.

‘Italy. The Congo. Land’s End.’ Alan laughed, and the Doctor smiled, as if pleased at his reaction.

‘Surely not five months, though?’ he said.

‘Well, yes. I’ve been away five months.’ Alan looked at him searchingly.

‘It’s October now, and I saw you last in July...’

‘May,’ the Doctor corrected him, but Alan shook his head.

‘No, it was July - I’m quite certain.’

‘I was in Naples in July,’ the Doctor said defiantly, and looked almost insulted at the suggestion. Alan swallowed, wondering what this meant. Surely he must be lying - or be mistaken?

‘You were here,’ Alan asserted. The Doctor looked away, bewildered, and put away his cup. For a moment he seemed very lost, and then he curled up on the sofa and rested his head in his lap. He looked so pitiful, and at first, Alan was afraid to touch him, as though he might break. Finally he dared to place a hand on his head, and the Doctor moved a little, appreciating the touch. He started stroking his hair, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leaned down and kissed his forehead.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ the Doctor whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ Alan admitted.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he sighed. ‘Perhaps I was here. Perhaps I... forgot going here. Doesn’t seem very likely, does it? Although my track record isn’t brilliant.’ He fell silent again. It was odd; there usually seemed to be nothing wrong with the Doctor’s memory after the point when his amnesia had set in...

‘Do you really not remember anything of... before?’ he asked at last.

‘Sometimes... there are flashes. But they make no sense. None at all. They can’t be memories...’ The Doctor sobbed suddenly, and Alan grabbed his shoulder, trying to anchor him to the real world so that he would not slip into hysterics. His body tightened for a moment, but then relaxed, and he exhaled.

‘I guess...’ Alan said slowly, unwilling to speculate about such things, ‘that either it’s just something mental or it’s... physiological. I mean, there might just be something, eum, wrong with your brain.’ The Doctor shrugged, as well as is possible when lying on one’s side. ‘Have you ever seen anyone about it?’

‘Of course I have,’ the Doctor answered wearily. ‘It’s never done any good. Most of the time, it’s just been unpleasant - harmful, even. Like the time in the thirties when they gave me metrazol.’

‘Whyever would they do that?’ Alan exclaimed.

‘It induces convulsions,’ he explained, suddenly quite calm. ‘They’d used it on patients with various mental illnesses, and figured it might work on me.’

‘But it didn’t?’ He shook his head.

‘All it did was that I dislocated my hip and forgot what I called myself for a few days.’ Alan stared at him in shock, suddenly appalled at the medical profession.

‘That’s just barbaric.’

‘It’s my fault, I guess - I wanted them to help me. I believed that they might. I did consent, after all.’

‘But still...’ Suddenly he could not bear not touching him, and leaned over him again to hug his shoulder and rest his cheek against his temple. The very idea of inflicting pain on anyone with the argument that it would do them good was upsetting, but it seemed particularly wrong to do it to the Doctor. It was overstepping not only the usual boundaries of decency, but something greater. Alan thought of the Doctor as someone who should undegradable, and the falseness of that conviction angered him. Furthermore, it made him even more protective of the man, whom he thought should not actually need protecting. In Germany, it had been the Doctor who had been in control and had saved him; he found it difficult to accept that that had changed. Still, since last year, when he had returned from whatever wanderings he had been on, the Doctor had seemed more unstable, occasionally worryingly so. He hugged him a little closer, half-wishing that he was not so willing to leap to his aid and   
him like this.

‘Do you think I’m going mad, Alan?’ the Doctor whispered. He could not see his face, but he imagined him staring into nothingness as he spoke.

‘Of course you’re not going mad,’ Alan answered. He sounded more convinced than he felt. When the Doctor sat up, he saw the look in his eyes, and he recognised it. All those years in Cambridge and at Bletchley, surrounded by brilliant but volatile minds, had taught him what it looked like. He had seen it before, in the mirror and on other people. It was the look of an oncoming breakdown or brewing depression. What such a thing would mean for a man of the Doctor’s emotional expressiveness he could scarcely imagine. All he could do was to take both his hands and tell him not to worry, and when he dipped his head in that characteristically way to hide his face behind his hair, to brush the hair out of his face and kiss him. His immediate reaction was one of surprise, perhaps of reluctance, but then he melted into his touch. Alan told himself that nothing had changed, whatever he might think.

After dinner, they returned to the living-room with glasses of scotch and the _New Statesman_ puzzle-page. It took them ten minutes to do the difficult crossword.

‘Five years ago, it would have taken me eight minutes on my own,’ Alan commented.

‘Three and a half minutes together, I’m sure,’ the Doctor answered and smiled. Alan smiled back, feeling rather embarrassed at how much the man’s smile still affected him. It was the kind of thing that often wore off, but with the Doctor it still made his heart jump.

But he did not let him pursue the thought of what they might do, but asked:

‘What were you reading when I arrived?’

‘Oh dear,’ Alan exclaimed and drew back his hand. ‘I’ve absolutely forgot to show you!’ Without offering any explanation, he dashed upstairs and retrieved an off-print from the box they had arrived in. Then he made his way downstairs, brandishing it. ‘This!’ he said and placed the article in the Doctor’s hands. He looked at the title of the piece, threw him an amused look and then started reading. Feeling awkward where he stood, Alan sat down in a nearby armchair, awaiting the Doctor’s verdict. Even if he found it agitating to watch him reading the article, he could not look away. There was something overwhelmingly beautiful about the look of concentration on his already beautiful face.

When the Doctor finally closed the pamphlet, he stopped to consider the contents. Slowly, Alan moved closer and sat down on the floor beside him.

‘So... what do you think?’ The Doctor’s face, still pensive, slowly split into a smile.

‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘Very impressive.’

‘Do you really think that?’ Alan asked, feeling like a schoolboy fishing for praise.

‘Of course. It’s nothing we’ll see in a while yet, though...’

‘Certainly not in our lifetimes,’ he said, and then wondered whether it was right to say “our”. There was something oddly ageless about the Doctor... Then he shook himself, realising he was being silly. Why would such a personality trait bear any implication of his longevity? When he looked up again, the Doctor was looking at him intensely. Alan gave him a prompting look, and the Doctor asked:

‘Do you ever think about it?’

‘About what?’

‘Dresden.’ Alan shifted and sighed.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Usually not. It’s... It makes no sense, and going over it again and again won’t make it make any more sense.’ The Doctor’s face hardened a little.

‘So it doesn’t fit into your world-view, and therefore you ignore it?’ Alan shook his head.

‘No, that wasn’t what I meant. It’s just...’ He had never had to explain it before, and the difficulty of finding the right words was frustrating. Finally he took a deep breath and started from the beginning. ‘The thing is - I’m a scientist. I want to understand things. The things that happened in Dresden... It feels like they were beyond my comprehension. I am actually unable to understand it - I don’t have the intelligence or brain-power or frame of reference or whatever’s missing to understand those things. When they happened, I may have understood parts of it, and glossed over the bits which didn’t make sense. But now... I couldn’t for my life remember what that machine we helped them build looked like. It was too complicated.’ The Doctor tilted his head, as if he still did not see his point. ‘Not dwelling on it is simply down to survival instinct. I’d drive myself around the bend if I kept trying to understand it.’

The Doctor watched him almost languidly.

‘And despite that, you still put up with me.’ Alan laughed.

‘Of course I do...’

‘And I make even less sense than the events in Dresden.’ They looked at each other for a long time.

‘It’s different,’ Alan said finally.

‘How?’ the Doctor persisted. What was the answer to that? The Doctor was different from the Strangers because he seemed like a man, at least most of the time, but that did not do him any justice. The real reason was of course that he could not imagine not putting up with him. He had known since shortly after they met that he loved him, but it was not until the last few months he had realised just how much he doted on him.

‘Just because,’ he said, knowing he could not explain all that without making a muddle of it. When the Doctor still looked sceptical, he took the opportunity to kiss him. They ended up lying on the floor, kissing, and stayed there for a long time. There was a special kind of joy in this chaste act, and he was almost afraid of polluting it.

When the discomfort of the floor grew too much for him, the Doctor sat up beside Alan, who simply propped his head up with his arms.

‘What about you?’ Alan asked. ‘Do you think of it?’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor admitted, looking away.

‘Do _you_ understand it?’

‘A little more than you, I think,’ he said with a brief smile. ‘But not entirely.’ They were silent again, and Alan watched how the Doctor’s face grew pensive.

‘Why do you think about it, then?’ Now the Doctor looked almost embarrassed. ‘You said you wanted to go with them....’

‘I thought I could,’ the Doctor said. ‘It was a ridiculous thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway...’ Alan sat up, an old thought suddenly reappearing.

‘Would you have taken me with you?’ The Doctor hid his face behind his hair.

‘Oh, Alan,’ he said softly. ‘You’re needed here. I couldn’t have bereaved the world like that.’

‘You would have bereaved me,’ Alan answered. The look he got was unimpressed.

‘Well, it didn’t work anyway,’ he said dismissively. ‘I’m stuck here.’ He looked away, suddenly in a mood. Alan edged away from him a little to give him space to vent whatever had come over him. He watched how the Doctor’s shoulders started sagging, and his face grew worried. At last he asked, very quietly:

‘Do you think I’m human, Alan?’

For once he had an answer.

‘You convince me of your humanity. Thus you are human.’ The Doctor sneered. There was almost something mocking in his eye.

‘All nicely spelt out in your little paper.’

‘How else am I going to answer?’ Alan asked sharply. ‘That you’re not human because you think in a different way? Because there’s something odd with your heart? Because you seem to feel that you don’t _belong_? That would be nonsense. Besides, how many people would not be human if that last one was a criterion for humanity?’ They stared at each other, until Alan realised he simply had to spell it out. ‘I believe what I wrote in that article. As for whether you are human in the sense of _homo sapiens_ , I have no idea, and frankly I don’t care, because I couldn’t conceive of you not being that. To me, “human” is synonymous with what religious people call having soul, and I am convinced you have that. Therefore, to me, if not to anyone else, you are human.’

The Doctor looked at him searchingly for a long time, and then finally sighed and smiled.

‘Alan,’ he said, his voice weary but his tone admiring. ‘My dear, dear Alan. Always so pragmatic. Not a humbug in sight.’

‘I should hope not,’ Alan answered and got up. Something in the situation disturbed him, and he felt the need to turn away. He did not leave, but simply crossed to the window. The Doctor said his name and followed him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, sounding crestfallen. Alan stared out of the window, hoping to be able to ignore him, but the urge to speak his mind was too strong.

‘You act like you despise me.’ There was a surprised laugh.

‘Despise you? I do no such thing.’ He looked over his shoulder and looked at him accusingly.

‘Really?’ The Doctor’s face fell. Alan turned away again; what he was doing felt unfair, but he was guarded against his own feelings, not wanting to be carried away by them.

‘I don’t understand,’ the Doctor said quietly. ‘Explain it to me.’ He sighed and grudgingly faced him, but did not look up.

‘Do you really think that pragmatism is a good thing? Because you speak to me like you think I’m simple. Look, I need some way to look at the world, and I think I’ve found it, and I don’t want to start shoehorning things which I can’t understand into categories where they don’t belong. Others may do that, but to me it makes no sense.’ He paused and then pointed out: ‘If you treat me like I’m stupid, then God knows how you treat everyone else.’ The Doctor sighed, but it was a sigh of a man finding his lover unreasonable.

‘I don’t despise you,’ he said patiently. ‘But you _are_ being rather childish. But at least it’s honest.’

‘Well, I’m childish because I’m upset,’ Alan retorted.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Doctor said. He was leaning against the window, so that they were technically facing each other, even if Alan did not want to look at him. He felt sick of himself; soon his resolve would break and the Doctor would have it his way, simply because Alan was stupidly in love with the man, and he had been a lost cause ever since admitting that. He wished he could be properly angry at the Doctor, because of his sudden disappearances and reappearances, his cryptic promises, his sudden moods which seemed targeted at all of humanity. Perhaps it was silly putting up with it... But he knew better than to believe that. If this was the Doctor simply taking what he wanted and leaving, then Alan was really not putting up any fight to be spoken of. He perfectly relished being such an object. He did not understand the mechanisms of such a relationship, where one party became so dependent on the other that he did not mind the long waits and the uncertainties of return, because the rush of pleasure when he for once showed up - only for a night, a few hours of the day, never more - was too great.

‘Why do you bother?’ Alan asked. The Doctor shifted now, moving a little closer.

‘Bother with what?’

‘With this,’ he said. ‘With... me.’ Somewhere in the corner of his eye, he saw the Doctor’s face fall.

‘You’re the only person who simply accepts me. You get closer to understanding me than anyone does... than I do myself.’ _So there we are,_ Alan thought to himself. _It all comes down to the amnesia in the end. Not whether you care, or whether I care, but whether it makes you feel like more than the man you have been reduced to._

‘Is that all?’ he asked. The Doctor sighed, and from the way he suddenly hung his head, Alan wondered if he was crying. When he spoke, his voice sounded profoundly sad.

‘It implies so much more. What it means is that you are my only friend. You’re the only person truly willing to be my friend.’

Not touching suddenly grew too much. Without Alan knowing who had moved first, they embraced, stubble scratching soft skin.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alan whispered, and all he could do not to give into self-loathing for being so unfair was to hold him closer. The Doctor hushed him, but clung to him as if he were the one asking forgiveness. Perhaps he was, in his own way. Alan wanted to tell himself off for doing just what he knew he would do, but now, when he was in the Doctor’s embrace, especially when the Doctor himself seemed so frail, he pushed it aside. They simply stood there for a long time, holding each other, until he felt the need to speak. ‘I hope that I am a little more to you than a friend,’ he said, his last defense being to sound even grudging about that. Something made him think the Doctor smiled.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said and lifted his head from his shoulder, making them face each other. They kissed, and whatever hesitation there had been disappeared. Alan stroked his cheek, and when he felt the half-dried trail of a tear on it, he kissed it away. When they broke the embrace, they still held each other’s hands, and did not let go of each other as they settled on the floor again for a game of chess, or when they finally meandered upstairs for sleep.

***

Even if the melancholy had been lifted that time, that unstable streak in the Doctor’s personality remained. His visits were even harder to predict than usual; sometimes he would stay for days, reading happily in the living room while Alan cycled to the department, sometimes he would be gone for long stretches of time, often without any notice. When he was there, he always seemed to have something to brood over, even if it was never directed at Alan. This change in the Doctor’s mood worried him, and while he worked on his new project, in the field of mathematical biology, he would mull it over. It was a wonder that it had not made things between them more critical than they were; the Doctor still listened happily to him talking about his work, and they were much like they had always been, despite certain shifts of key. There was something desperate in their lovemaking, he thought, like that between lovers stalling for time, trying to ignore the imminent departure of one or the other. Perhaps, Alan thought, the fault was his. He had readily interpreted the events in July as that the Doctor was leaving him, and now when he was back, he was terrified that he would leave for real. In a way he was surprised he had not. The Doctor’s downcast mood was just the kind where it would not surprise him. As for himself, he could not imagine being the one to bring it about - the mere thought of it made him panic.

The despondency which he had been anticipating was made apparent a few days after Christmas, when the Doctor turned up unexpectedly at his doorstep. When they had settled down with their tea-cups, Alan mentioned the war in Korea in passing, and the Doctor sighed.

‘I don’t think I care anymore,’ he said.

‘About what?’ Alan asked, perplexed.

‘The world,’ the Doctor answered, staring into his tea-cup. ‘Right and wrong. Anything.’

‘Doctor...’

‘Please, don’t,’ he sighed.

‘But it’s not like you,’ Alan insisted.

‘Who’s to say if it’s like me or not?’ the Doctor said, flaring up, and then slumped back against the back of the couch again. With a sigh he suggested: ‘Perhaps I’m ill.’

‘Yes, perhaps you are,’ Alan said, hoping that he made it clear from his tone that there was no “perhaps” about it. Such a complete change of character could not be natural.

The Doctor simply sighed again and said:

‘I’ve wandered around the world for over fifty years. Haven’t I deserved a bit of peace and quiet?’ This statement was deeply disturbing. It seemed completely out of character, and completely contrary to what he had said less than half a year ago. And then again, if he he were to stay in one place, perhaps there was a chance...

But he dared not ask. He did not know if the Doctor counted him as part of the sphere of danger and adventure, or that of calm relaxation. If he was a part of the former, what would then be his lot? Encouraging rejection was the last thing he wanted.

Besides, he was not given time to ask. The Doctor had risen from the couch and was extracting something from his inner pocket with some difficulty.

‘I want to show you something,’ he explained and knelt on the floor as he opened the large envelope he had taken from his pocket. Alan sat apprehensively beside him and watched the Doctor take out the content of the envelope and place it on the rug between them. They were photographs, he saw now, but it took him some time to see what they represented. The Doctor placed them neatly as if they were part of a grid, and now Alan saw that the photographs were of some surface, by the floral background he assumed a wall, which had been photographed systematically. There was some kind of writing, and when he leaned in and looked closer, he realised that it was an equation, running line upon line over the wall.

‘What is this?’ he asked, looking at the twenty-odd photographs laid out in front of them. The Doctor pointed at the bottom-right photograph, and said:

‘This is where I woke up.’ Alan followed his finger, and saw that where he indicated, there was an uncontrolled jerk of the pen before it broke off.

‘You wrote this in your _sleep_?’ he exclaimed.

‘What do you think it means?’ the Doctor asked, not seeming particularly worried at the impossibility of his claim. Alan did not state the obvious fact that anything produced in sleep was unlikely to make sense, but instead said:

‘Some of this notation doesn’t make any sense...’

‘I think it does,’ the Doctor answered. ‘We just don’t know it.’

‘Do you understand it?’ he asked, looking up at him.

‘No. But I think I did once.’ Alan sighed.

‘What do you think this whole thing means?’ The Doctor gave a half-hearted shrug.

‘Perhaps it’s a clue.’

‘To what happened?’

‘Or who I was,’ he supplied.

‘So we solve it,’ Alan concluded, trying to sound engaging. In normal circumstances, the Doctor would have agreed vigorously, but now, he only sighed. ‘What? What’s wrong?’ he asked worriedly. ‘You want to know, don’t you?’

‘I must have forgot for a reason,’ he said laconically. ‘Perhaps I’m not meant to know.’

‘Don’t say that, Doctor,’ Alan told him and reached out to take his hand. He made no resistance, but did not answer the touch. ‘I hate seeing you so miserable,’ he said, deciding that it was better to be honest about it. ‘Isn’t there anything I can do?’ The Doctor looked away, then shook off his grip and stood up. Alan was on his feet the next moment, grabbing for him; he caught the velvet of his sleeve and kept hold of it. ‘Don’t leave,’ he said. The Doctor stared at him as if he had spoken in some foreign language. ‘Please, Doctor, stay.’

‘Why?’ he asked hollowly. The question took him by surprise.

‘B-because,’ Alan started, stammering from agitation, ‘because I want you to.’ Something moved in the Doctor’s eye, and then, biting his lip, he sat down on the spot, in a way which would have been comic in any other circumstance.

‘Oh, Alan, what am I to do?’ he whispered.

‘I-it’s alright,’ Alan said hurriedly and knelt to put an arm around him. His previous apathy gone, the Doctor leaned his head against his shoulder and wept. At least he was not shying away - that would have been worse. He wished he was brave enough to say that he loved him, but in this state, would be really answer? Besides, he acted as if the day they had shared together, when he had finally picked up his courage to say it, was completely forgotten. Was it willful, or simply another part of reality the Doctor was losing his grip of? Torn between overwhelming protectiveness and fierce possessiveness, he held him, refusing to let go even when the Doctor started muttering about being alright.

Finally he let go of him. They spent the evening discussing Gödel and kissing coyly, and even if they did nothing beyond that, Alan was too glad at that they had at least that intimacy that he did not feel let down. They slept in each other’s arms; Alan drifted in and out of his reverie, disturbed by the Doctor’s mumblings and movements.

In the morning the Doctor was gone. This time, no token had been left behind, only the photographs of the dreamed equation, still lying on the floor of the living-room.

***

Alan knew he should not let it get to him, but something about the Doctor’s disappearance had unsettled him deeply. He did his best not to worry at first, but when a month and more had gone by, he started to wonder what had happen. There was little he could do about it. He did not dare to go into the slums to the house where the Doctor kept his books and the box, as his apprehensiveness against showing the way to it still lingered from when he had been followed. He wrote a postcard, but received no answer. In March, he was made a Fellow of the Royal Society and went down to London for the occasion. When he walked through Bloomsbury, he thought he saw the Doctor, with that characteristic head of hair held low in thought, turn a corner. Alan ran after him, but he was nowhere to be seen, and he dismissed it all as wishful thinking.

As spring progressed, his preoccupation with the Doctor’s whereabouts grew. By now he was certain that he was not in Manchester, and he thought that what he had seen in London was just a figment of his imagination. He kept telling himself that it was not the first time the Doctor had gone missing and then turned up, but it was not the disappearance itself which caused concern. It was the Doctor’s state of mind which worried him, and even if he did not want to contemplate it, his mind would continue to present scenarios of what had happened to him. The best scenario was that he had simply gone away to recuperate. A less pleasant but still calming one was that he had gone off the rails and had been committed, in which case he would be taken care of until he got better and they discharged him. No, it was not those alternatives which Alan had nightmares about, or which he kept at the back of his mind when reading the paper.

It was not an unfamiliar thought, but still one he could not grow used to. A boy a few years below him at Cambridge - he had not known him, and did not remember his name now - had cut his wrists in the bath. Poor Angus Wilson, from the Italian cipher section, had been driven into a nervous breakdown by heartbreak and war, and had tried to drown himself in the duck pond at Bletchley Park. Had he not himself contemplated suicide in Paris, when returning to England and loving the Doctor had seemed equally bleak? He was aware what men could do when they were distressed, and he worried that the Doctor had reached that far. Unbidden, his eyes searched the newspapers for reports on unidentified bodies on train-tracks, in bomb-sites, lying in the street or floating in the river. Despite his best effort not to dwell on the subject, he woke up screaming, having dreamt of the Doctor and Chris and blood. All he could do was to tell himself that he was jumping to conclusions and that the Doctor was probably just out of the country, hoping to convince himself.

Surprised at how debilitating he found the Doctor’s absence, he decided as spring started turning into summer to put the problem to Robin again, this time as part of their correspondence. In Robin’s next letter, squeezed in between thoughts on his PhD thesis and reflections on Alan’s research into morphogenesis, appeared his advice:

> Re: the Dr: I think you are blowing it out of proportion, as you yourself say. I know that arguing with you on the point won’t really lead anywhere, but if he is as disturbed as you say, then perhaps not having him around is a good thing? Over the summer you were convinced that he was gone for good, and he came back. He may do it again. Put it out of your mind, and make sure not to get too lonely.
> 
> Cambridge is all a-titter over the Burgess-Maclean scandal. They seem to think that any queer Tab is now considered a Russian spy. Don’t praise Stalin too loudly for a few months (not that you would). At least your Dr went missing half a year ago, not now - if he had, people would have started wondering about his loyalties.

Alan felt a little offended by the implication that the Doctor was a Russian spy, but any ill-will he felt disappeared when he realised that there was something left in the envelope. He drew it out, feeling the smooth surface of a photograph. The back, which was facing him, said: “ _I thought you might like this. /Robin._ ” He turned it over, and felt his breath hitch.

The photograph was of the kitchen in the house in Hanslope on VE-Day. It looked like it had been rejected from an album for being a failed photo; Don was in the middle of some facial expression which looked particularly odd when frozen. Alan could understand that he did not remember it being taken, because he seemed completely oblivious of the camera. Instead, he was turned in profile, looking at the Doctor, on his right. He in turn had Timothy the cat in his arms, lifted up to his cheek as if to show him off. The cat’s paw had blurred where it had lashed out at the Doctor’s hair, which touched his fur. The Doctor himself, his face sharp in the otherwise blurred picture, was looking directly into the lens, and out of the picture. The immediacy of his gaze was frightening, so that instead of leaving it on his desk as he had thought, Alan put the picture in a drawer, where he would be able to find it but where the Doctor would not stare at him. He could not help wondering what had made that flare in the Doctor’s eyes go out. Being reminded of the past hurt; Alan thought now that he had been an innocent even then. His relationship with the Doctor had been a childish worry, not a grating obsession.

All he could do was to take Robin’s advice of not dwelling on it, and concentrated on his work instead. Sometimes he would pass down Oxford Street and notice the men whose waiting and watching the untrained eye would not see. Alan did not catch their eye; all he could think of was the Doctor. He did not enjoy this new streak of obsession, but it was so unyielding that he could not even bear the thought of another man.

He published his first article on morphogenesis in November, and at that point he had most certainly let himself grow too lonely, as Robin had told him not to. He told himself to think about it as a treat for a job well done. He could not expect whatever he had had with the Doctor to last; it was not the kind of relationship a grown man had. It was rather the deluded love-affair between two students, when they both should have been beyond that point, even when they met. He needed to rid himself of these romantic notions, and stop imagining escaping with the Doctor on one of his adventures.

But the man he finally approached, in the tentative, careful manner such conversations were always held, was auburn-haired and blue-eyed. Still - and this calmed Alan at least a little - that was as far as the similarities with the Doctor went. He was very young (Alan felt ashamed to realise that if he was right in that this man was around twenty, it would make him half his age) and one side of his mouth curled into a smile any time he spoke, his Mancunian accent making it sound almost like singing. When Alan asked if he would like to come for lunch, he answered, ‘I’d be madferit’, and touched Alan’s hand very slightly. He realised then that he had left it too long - he should have sought out company long ago. He did his best to concentrate on the company of this boy, whose name was Arnold, but he still found his mind wandering. It was not of Arnold he thought when he lay sleepless, or when he hit upon some time-consuming problem in his research, not even when he was in his presence. It was still the Doctor, even if he pretended to himself that he had all but forgot about him. Often, his mind wandered to the cadence of his voice, the thin trail of hairs down his stomach, the way he hid his face behind his hair when he smiled. He thought about those wine-red ribbed stockings he wore, which he would carelessly leave on if Alan did not take them off for him. He dwelt on how he had once kissed his knees as he undid the garters, and it had felt like an act of supplication. It had all been one form of supplication or other, begging for his love, or begging to have his heart spared. It seemed now that neither had happened.

When the longing got particularly bad, he would take out the photographs the Doctor had left behind the last time had seen him. He had made a clean copy of the equation, but the odd notation made it difficult. Alan reasoned that however odd the equation was, it still had to adhere to mathematical principles. So he approached the notation as if it were a code, and tried to figure out what would make more sense. In a fit of manic concentration, he spent several day writing up new software for the Mark 1, but could still not make it make any sense. Several times he put it aside, wondering how an equation could be a clue to someone’s identity, and why it really mattered now. Still that equation became a haven, when the affair with Arnold turned sour. It had started out well enough, even if the boy was badly educated. Alan decided and explained to him that he would teach him what he did not know; he would simply be a bit Athenian about the whole thing. He told him about mathematics and computers, and made up science fiction stories based on his childhood nightmares about machine intelligence. Arnold would pay attention and try to follow, but seemed unable to grasp many of the concepts. It made him disappointed, but he knew that his expectations were too high. He was still trying to get used to being the more intelligent in the relationship, after so long with the Doctor outshining him. The things which made him doubt Arnold’s earnestness were worldly things - unpaid debts, money going missing from his wallet - and he tried to cut off the liaison, albeit without much success.

One day in late January, he had stayed at the department working, while listening to the repeat of a wireless broadcast his head of department had bullied him into being part of. He found listening to his own voice odd; even if it was not as bad as the first time had heard the recording, he still cringed whenever his high-pitched stammer was heard. He was still thinking about it as he cycled back to Wilmslow through the dark. The evening was chilly, and just as he reached his house and parked his bike, it started snowing. He looked forward to getting inside to warm up; a cup of tea and a crossword would be just the thing.

But when he closed the door behind him and shrugged off his coat, he found the house almost as cold as the air outside. Suddenly apprehensive, he stopped and listened. He heard only silence. He roused himself and went further in, following the draft. It was coming from the living-room, and even before he flicked the light-switch, he saw the sparkle of snow on the floor. But it was not only snow; there was glass. He turned the lights on and saw that the window to the garden had been smashed and opened. His heart started beating a hurried tattoo in his chest, as he watched the snow swirling into the room and he felt the laughter bubbling up inside him.

No, he needed to know. He needed to find him.

‘Doctor?’ he called, and when there was no answer, he shouted louder. ‘Doctor! Doctor, where are you?’ He looked through the living-room, then the kitchen and the guest-room. Rushing upstairs, he called his name and searched every room. They were all empty. Alan stopped on the landing, panting from rushing through the house, wondering where he could be. He had come back, almost like he had on Bonfire Night but this time he had had the sense to get into the house so that he would not freeze... He went downstairs again, into the living-room, where the melting snow was sinking into the carpet. _Where is he hiding?_

And then it struck him how silly he was being. This was not the Doctor coming back to him. This was a burglary. Once again he searched through the house, now looking for things missing. When looking around with clearer eyes, he started noticing moved ornaments and book-piles which had been knocked over. The things which were missing seemed entirely random; assorted clothes, a compass, a few fish-knives from the kitchen. His search complete, he returned to the living-room, where the night-cold had taken over the warmth of the house so much that it might as well have been outside. He stared at the swirling snow and the shards of glass wedged into the carpet, and suddenly felt a longing for the Doctor so acute that it physically hurt. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if for the cold, but actually, it felt like he would crack and fall apart into pieces like the smashed window. For a delirious moment, he had thought that the Doctor had come back, and as quickly as the hope had come, it had been taken away. The event had been transferred to the real world, where maths was just a subject and people had unhappy marriages and adventures never happened. When staring at the smashed window of his living-room, Alan realised with a new intensity that he was an exile in that world. The Doctor had spotted that in him the first time they met - he had called him a “permanent exile”, but also a “kindred spirit”. The latter, he saw now, was no longer true, or at least not important. The Doctor had not returned tonight, and probably he never would. Alan was exiled even from him. A wave of anger and sickness hit him as it stood clear to him who was responsible for the break-in. _Betrayed by two lovers in one night,_ he thought bitterly.

Standing in the cold would not make anything different, he decided. With a new sense of purpose, he went over the the family next-door to borrow their telephone in order to call the police. That done, he returned to wait for them, sitting down with some note-paper and a pen in the kitchen. As the wind whistled through the smashed window on the far-end of the house, he started writing a letter to Arnold, ending the affair.


	9. Chapter 9

In an ideal world, splitting up is a straightforward event. One party has his reasons and informed the other party of them. The association os cancelled, and both carried on with their lives the best they can.

As so often, Alan was reminded that they did not live in an ideal world. The injured party did not always inform his lover of the wrong done and the wish to terminate the relationship, as seemed to have been the case with the Doctor. When an explanation was given, the informed party simply did not understand what had been said. In his letter to Arnold, Alan had spelt out that if he came to Wilmslow again, he would not be admitted. Yet only next day, which Alan had spent clearing up the living-room of window-glass, now when the police had done powdering every part of the house for finger-prints, there was a knock on the door. Arnold was outside, jumping from one foot to the other.

‘Can I come in? It’s bloody cold,’ he told him, and despite what he had written in the letter, Alan stepped aside to let him in. _It’s what Robin would call my spaniel heart,_ he thought, and was almost glad when instead of taking his coat off and making himself at home, Arnold turned to him as soon as the door had closed. ‘I’m not a thief,’ he spat.

‘I have not claimed you were,’ Alan said measuredly. He had not mentioned the burglary, only revived the question of the money which had gone missing from his wallet some months ago. ‘I simply wanted an explanation...’

‘Ye don’t want an explanation!’ he shouted. ‘Ye just want ta get rid o’ me, don’t ye?’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Alan told him pointedly, growing increasingly nervous.

‘Why did ye drag up that old thing anyway? We were having a good time,’ Arnold pressed on. ‘I’m innocent, I tell ye. And I can’t pay ye back, I’m skint.’

‘I don’t care about the money, I care about honesty, and you haven’t shown me that...’

‘Is honesty what ye want?’ he said and hunched his shoulders, like an animal getting ready to bounce. ‘I’ll go to the police! I’ll tell them _everything_!’

‘Do your worst,’ Alan told him sharply. ‘I don’t care.’ He looked at him severely, feeling rather like a schoolmaster telling off a pupil. ‘I had thought that blackmail was below you, Arnold. You’d better leave.’ He turned his back and walked into the house, listening for sounds that Arnold was leaving. But the door did not open. Instead there was a sigh and the thud of him leaning against the wall. When he looked around, the boy was rubbing his forehead and staring into the carpet. They stood there for a long time, awkwardly aware of each other’s presence, until Arnold sighed again and straightened up.

‘I never could,’ he admitted softly. ‘You’re such a gentleman, Alan. I couldn’t do that to ya.’ He looked away, embarrassed. ‘It was a stupid thing to say.’

‘Yes,’ Alan agreed. The confession had stirred compassion in him, and staying angry and overbearing was unpleasant. So, shuffling his feet and feeling as awkward as Arnold sounded, he asked: ‘Drink?’ Arnold shrugged and smiled, and followed him into the living-room. When he had poured the drinks and handed it to him, he saw that Arnold was looking at the window, which he had boarded up to keep the cold out.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked. Alan was relieved that he sounded so perplexed; had he sounded more casual, there had been the risk that he had been the one to smash it.

‘Oh, someone broke in,’ he said quite casually. Arnold, however, looked alarmed ad then swore.

‘I know who did it,’ he said urgently.

‘However so?’ Alan asked, surprised.

‘’is name’s ‘enry - ‘e’s a mate of mine. I mentioned ya - bragged a bit, to be honest - and ‘e suggested breaking in for a lark...’ He fell silent as Alan left his seat and found a notepad and a pen. ‘I told ‘im no,’ Arnold continued emphatically. ‘I didn’t know ‘e’d do it...’

‘I believe you,’ Alan said and sat down again. ‘Tell me everything, and I’ll tell the police for you.’

***

Even if Alan believed most of what Arnold had said, and was at least partially convinced of his innocence, he found forgiving him very hard. Even if he was not directly responsible, that false hope that the Doctor had returned was because of him, and he found that a blight he could not simply overlook. He let him stay the night, but made no attempt to contact him after that, and was relieved that Arnold did not come calling again. He had lost all enthusiasm for their affair, and he retreated to the Doctor’s equation in the evenings. Now, he was working on the parts he could understand, rewriting them into different forms of notation, hoping to find some clue of what course to take next. He speculated that it may be some kind of algorithm, but it was little more than a whim he was pursuing.

He was working through the equation again using a desk-calculator he had made himself one evening when the doorbell rang. Absentmindedly, he picked up the paper he had been surveying and made his way downstairs, his mind still on his work. He was still reading it when he opened the door. Then he realised that there was someone there, and looked up, spotting two men standing on the doorstep, one stout and short, the other tall and gawkish.

‘How may I help you?’ he said, feeling like he had nodded off and had just woken up again.

‘Sorry to disturb, sir,’ the stout one said, indicating himself and his colleague. ‘Mr Wills - Mr Rimmer.’ In unison, they produced police-badges.

‘We’ve got some questions, sir, if it’s not too inconvenient a time,’ the tall man said. Alan had missed which one was Wills and which one was Rimmer, but simply nodded and waved them in. The detectives followed him upstairs to the study, where they looked around, perplexed. By the looks on their faces, Alan could tell that they were not used to the state the rooms of most academics were in. Feeling faintly amused, as well as annoyed at having been disturbed, he sat down and asked:

‘What may I do for you?’ The detectives’ eyes stopped wandering around the room and concentrated on him suddenly. The stout man, whom Alan had decided was Wills, cleared his throat, and the tall man, by implication Rimmer, said:

‘We know everything, Doctor Turing.’ Alan waited for him to specify, but instead both the detectives simply looked at him as if it was his turn to speak. Guessing it must be some kind of way to catch him off-guard, he did not answer, and finally Wills said:

‘Could you please describe the man who broke into your house again, sir?’

‘Naturally,’ Alan said, twining his fingers together and recalling Arnold’s description of his no-good friend. ‘He’s about twenty-five years of age, five foot ten inches, with black hair.’ The detectives exchanged a glance.

‘We have reason to believe that your description is false,’ Wills said, and where there had been casual politeness before, there was an edge, sharp but oddly satisfied. ‘Why are you lying?’

The question took Alan by complete surprise, and before he had time to think it through, he admitted:

‘I didn’t see anyone leaving the house when I got back that night. I was given the description of a friend, who knew Henry, the man who did it. We’d had an affair, and I didn’t want him involved, so I told the police for him.’

‘Would you mind telling us what kind of affair you had with this man, sir?’ Rimmer asked. So Alan told them plainly what had passed between him and Arnold. When he fell silent, Wills gave a short, astonished laugh, and then said, as if not quite believing it himself:

‘In that case, Doctor Turing, we will have to arrest you.’ Alan stared at them; now it was his turn to laugh.

‘Surely you’re not serious,’ he said. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘According to Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885, you have, sir,’ Rimmer told him.

‘I thought there was a Royal Commission sitting to legalise homosexuality,’ Alan said, looking from Wills to Rimmer and finding their silence taunting. ‘This is absolutely absurd.’ The detectives simply looked at each other, and Wills stepped forward and recited:

‘“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you alter rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”’

‘Yes, yes, very well,’ Alan said, waving the caution away. ‘You seem like reasonable chaps - I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.’

‘A misunderstanding, sir?’ Wills said. ‘You stated quite plainly that you had had... relations with the man in question.’

‘Well, I _have_ ,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’d be easier for you if I’d simply write you a statement.’ He produced some blank paper and found his fountain-pen under a pile of notes. ‘Perhaps it’ll be easier for you to understand it in that way,’ he said pointedly as he unscrewed the lid of the pen and started writing.

It took quite some time to write the statement, but when he handed it over, the detectives looked quite pleased, looking through it and nodding approvingly. They had no plans to bring him into the station, but contented themselves with the statement and taking his fingerprints and photograph before leaving. Alan walked them to the door, unwilling to let them wander about on their own in the house. When the door closed behind them, an eery silence fell.

Alan made his way slowly back to his study, looking at his hands. The fountain-pen had stained them with ink, but the splodges down the two first fingers of his left hand shone in stark contrast to the circles of ink on each of his finger-tips. It had not quite dried, and when he rubbed them against his palm, they smeared. Half-way up the stairs, he stopped, staring at the patterns of his own skin. It was the kind of detail you would not normally see, which you normally should not see. They had treated him like a common criminal, he suddenly realised. They had not even let him press down his own fingers on the paper, but had guided his hands, as if they had thought that he would reach up and smear the ink on their white shirts like an ill-behaved child.

He balled his hands up into fists, hiding the ink. They must have made a mistake - they could not charge him for that. This was not the nineteenth century. Surely they were all enlightened people? He leaned against the wall, struck by sudden despair.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said out loud, as if he was already in front of the judge. It suddenly dawned on him that there would be an actual trial, with witnesses and cross-questioning and a judge and a jury of peers. His imagination painted the scenario for him, the jury consisting of army liaison officers and bureaucrats, people like Greene, the kind of men who had never understood, and the judge looking like Alan’s father, looking down disapprovingly from his perch like an imposing vulture in red robes.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he muttered to himself and, ridding himself of the image, he walked up the stairs and returned to his calculations.

***

Being about to be charged with gross indecency oscillated between being merely inconvenient and paralysingly nerve-wrecking. Alan had decided early on that he would not let it daunt him, and mostly it did not. He went about his business, working on morphogenesis with the help of the computer at the department in the days and tackling the mysterious equation in the evenings. It was with great reluctance he consulted a lawyer. It lead to a running-in at once, of course; Alan could not see why the man thought a “not guilty”-plea was such a bad idea, when there was nothing to be guilty of. Whatever section of whatever law, according to which they were charging him, was wrong, and he would happily tell them that. Despite this, he took two pieces of advice from the lawyer; destroy any further evidence, and inform his family and friends of the trial. There was always a risk of things like this ending up in the national press, and especially since Alan had been in the papers a few times because of the Mark 1, some journalists might be happy to make a scandal out of it.

To his closer correspondents, he simply mentioned it in a paragraph or so in a letter about other things; he did not want to alarm them. Usually a laconic invitation to visit him in prison after the trial was over was sufficient. To those acquaintances whom he did not write to regularly he had little choice but to devote an entire letter to the topic. He wrote a particularly apologetic-sounding letter to Joan, telling her (without actually being certain if it was true) that the punishment was less savage than they had been in Oscar Wilde’s day, and that he would not end up in the tread-mill. It felt necessary to go to see Neville and tell him face-to-face. The explanation was not met with sympathy, but with irrational anger for having been incriminated. Worse was that the confession about the charge had been overheard by Neville’s mother, who promptly evicted Alan from the house and made it quite clear that her son would have nothing further to do with him. On the train back, Alan felt like a leper, but knew that the way Mrs Johnson had treated him was probably nothing to how she would now start treating Neville.

It was only then he realised that he had to tell his own mother. The thought made him feel sick. He even tried to make his brother do it for him, and was not particularly surprised when John told him that he had a good mind to punch him. Explaining the situation to his mother was by far the worst, because it involved not only explaining that he would probably go to prison, but to actually spell out how he lived his life to someone who did not - could not - understand. His mother was a child of her age, who thought that her own were by default righteous and upstanding, while the others, whether they were the Indian natives or the sloppy neighbours, were immoral and debauched. Therefore, her initial response, said in the paper-thin voice of a true Victorian lady, was:

‘Surely you’re joking, Alan? You can’t possibly be serious?’ It was not the kind of thing a man should ever have to talk to his mother about, but he needed her to understand, in order to make her realise what was happening. He had to spell it out to her, although he left the crude details out, her faintly amused answer turned into outraged shock. Alan saw in her eyes how her conception of her son as a man so dedicated to his science that he had even sacrificed love for it splintered and was replaced by a truer picture, coloured by her own misconceptions. Then her equilibrium broke, and her clipped answers turned into hysteric shrieks. At last she simply sat down and wept, but even then, her body remained stiff and unmoving, years of numbness and rows of whale-bone hid any sag caused by emotion. It was with unpleasant clarity Alan realised that he had changed not only her perception of him, but of the world. Her Victorian way of life may have been soulless and cold, but the new age he had thrown her into was savage. For the first time since leaving school, he felt ashamed. He did not try to hide the he also was crying as he sat down beside her, and apologised. When she did not answer, he put both his hands onto her arm, the way a child would, and repeated:

‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’ The withered woman turned her face to him, staring through the tears in sudden wonder at the form of address he had not used since he was a child. ‘I never meant to upset you.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ she said finally and stroked his cheek. ‘Of course you didn’t, my darling boy.’ For the first time in years, he embraced her. It made him feel very young. As he listened to her soothing, meaningless words, he was suddenly happy that his father was dead. The revelation would have been more difficult and his mother would have been less understanding, had he not been. When he left her house, the shame was gone, and he was content to know that he had not been estranged from his mother after all. On his way back to Wilmslow, he went through a mental list of all the people who had been informed. His brother, the people at the university, his friends at Cambridge, Robin, Hugh Alexander and Joan and the rest at GCHQ, Neville, his mother. That left only one.

As soon as he got back to the house, he sat down to write that final letter. It was much harder than he had thought it would be, and he threw away many versions before finally getting it right.

> Dear Doctor,  
> I hope this finds you well. I’m sending it to your Manchester address, as I don’t know where else you might be. I’m sure that you will receive it soon.
> 
> I find myself in a precarious situation: a boyfriend of mine set one of his friends on my house, and I reported it, which lead to that the police found out about the affair. I’m to be charged with what they call gross indecency. Most likely there will be a prison sentence. I feel so foolish, and I wish now that I had your courage, because I know that you would meet such a setback with more dignity than I will be able to muster. The trial is on the 31st March. I would be very pleased if you would come. Whatever they might throw at me, it cannot be worse than some of the things we went through together during the war.
> 
> I hope you are keeping well. I have worked on your equation recently, and have a few leads, which I would be happy to tell you about, the next time I see you.
> 
> With love,
> 
> Alan

When he finally put down his pen and read through the letter, it was difficult to imagine that it was addressed to a man he had not seen or heard from in over a year. It did not feel that long. Perhaps he should worry more about how fresh the obsession still was. When he had gone through his letters, he burnt every single one from a lover, but not those from the Doctor. They did not hint at the sex, and Alan did not think that a court could try him for sharing only affection with a man. Even if they had been incriminating, he did not think that he would have been able to destroy them.

***

There was a distinct sense of anticlimax on the day of the trial. The court-room seemed not the nightmarish scene he had imagined, but was a dull, mundane place. Daylight filtered through the windows, and the varnish on the dock had started to peel. As he watched the specks of dust dancing in the rays during the cross-examination of the character witnesses, Alan wondered at how ordinary it all felt. It all reminded him a little being taken in front of the headmaster and readying himself to get rapped over the knuckles. At school, there had of course not been any defense or guilt pleas or accomplices. The offenses had been silly things - reading chemistry books during chapel or unguarded taunts at teachers. There had never been twelve charges, neatly spelt out in terms of what had been done, by whom and to whom. The only time during the trial he felt truly nervous was when he was lead into the dock. The rest of the proceedings passed in something of a dampened haze. He had surveyed the faces of the audience eagerly. His brother was there, refusing to meet his eye, while Robin acknowledged him with a raise of the eyebrows. Hugh Alexander and the head of the maths department were present as character witnesses. Both detectives who had been to his house was there, together with the duty sergeant who had taken his false statement, modeled on what Arnold had said. There were a few men who looked like journalists. Alan looked away from the small congregation, swallowing his disappointment. It was not until now he realised that he had expected the Doctor to turn up. He remembered what he had whispered to him; _when you truly need me, I’ll be there._ Indulging himself for a moment, he imagined the Doctor suddenly marching in, dispersing the jury and explaining to the judge how the law had been suddenly repealed or found to contradict itself. Then with a grin he would take Alan by the hand and they would leave, not just the court-room but Manchester, Britain, perhaps civilisation itself... But the proceedings went on as planned, without any sudden interruptions. The wait for the sentence was short, but the announcement of the punishment took longer. It was not surprising that Arnold, whose defence had successfully argued that he had been seduced, was let off with a warning. Alan’s sentence was less expected.

They gave him a choice - a year of prison, or a year on probation, on the condition of undergoing hormone treatment. Suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings, Alan looked around, realising that the reason why it was so silent was that they were waiting for him to answer at once. The rational part of his mind kicked in, starting to conceptualise the two alternatives. It ran through the scenarios like a computer would run through two binary sequences, and then reach a concise, simplified way of expressing them. Going to prison would be to give up his intellect. Choosing the probation and accepting the hormones would be to give up his emotions. From what Alan could gather from the judge’s short explanation, it would rid him of sexual desires, at least for that year. He suddenly saw his life from a new angle - maths on one hand, love on the other. It was easy to tell which one had done him good, and which one had most often lead to harm. So when the judge demanded an answer and they made him stand to give it, he answered:

‘Probation.’

The court dispersed, and he was allowed to go. As long as he turned up to the hospital when he had to, he was a free man. Dazed, he joined the small crowd going out of the doors. Robin patted him on the shoulder, but the touch felt distant. He was aware of his best friend explaining that he had to catch his train, and shaking his hand warmly before leaving. When he was gone, John approached.

‘Goddammit, Alan,’ he said without looking at him, busy trying to find his cigarette-case.

‘I have to go,’ Alan said suddenly. His brother looked at him reproachfully.

‘What? Where? You need to call mother...’

‘Mother can wait,’ he said resolutely and started walking. ‘I have to go see someone.’

‘Of all the times to pick... Alan!’ John tried to take his arm, but he pulled away and set off at a run. He heard him shouting after him, but did not try to catch him; they both knew that Alan would be able to outrun him.

He did not stop until a few blocks away from the house. It was not the kind of street a man on probation for gross indecency should be right after his trial, but any self-preservation he had had was lost. As he slowed down to a brisk walk, trying to get his breath back, he thought of what they (that undefined pronoun - the state, the clinicians, so-called polite society) would take from him. Suddenly it did not seem like the nuisance it had in the court-room. The way they had put it, it had sounded like erasing an unwanted pencil mark from a page, but it was nothing of the kind. It was little less than straightforward castration. And what would it do to his mind? What if it did change him, turn him into someone he was not but they would prefer him to be? He needed to see the Doctor, talk to him, tell him, what had happened, and what he felt, least he would not feel it again...

The house was still there, not torn down as so many other damaged buildings. Running up the steps, he knocked on the door hard and shouted:

‘Doctor!’ There was no answer. He tried again. ‘Doctor, it’s Alan!’ When no answer came, he looked up and down the street, and, finding it empty, put his shoulder to the door and threw himself against it. It hurt worse than he had thought it would, but the hinges must have been rusted through, because they gave almost at once. He leaned the loose door against the hallway wall, and realised suddenly that he was standing on something - an envelope addressed to Dr. J. Smith in Alan’s own handwriting. Fumbling, he took it up, and felt his stomach sink.

‘Doctor!’ he shouted again and hurried into the house. Why had the letter been left there, unopened? He hesitated at the door, but he needed to know what it hid.

It was not locked, and opened on stiff hinges. The room was dark, but his eyes soon grew used to the gloom. The books, the bookshelves, the gramophone, even the blue wardrobe, were gone. The only thing in the room was the bare bed frame. On the wall above it, the scrawl of an equation could still be seen.

‘No,’ Alan whispered and squeezed the envelope in his hand. ‘No, he can’t have...’ But the Doctor was gone, and the convict who gave in and wept was in a deserted house.


	10. Chapter 10

The Cam had frozen over. It had to be be winter, but Alan could not remember it getting colder. Yet icicles hung from the Chapel spires, the lawns were white with undisturbed snow and the ice lay over the water like thick frosted glass. They climbed down the river-bed and stepped onto the ice. The Doctor was walking a little behind him, but his hand, cold in the chill of the afternoon, was in his, and he was talking continually. _Why did it sound so familiar?_ Alan wondered, listening to the argument the Doctor was explaining. Then he realised, his heart skipping. It was from his own morphogenesis paper! So the Doctor had read it, and must have liked it, enough to memorise parts and recite them, like he would recite poetry. He had even found a rhythm in the words, which had not been there when Alan had written that paragraph. He wanted to turn around and look at him, but he did not dare, least he may discover that he was not there after all.

They had reached a bridge, and just as the stepped into the vault, the Doctor took a better grip of his hand and spun him around, so that they faced each other. They kissed, but Alan could not feel his lips. He tried to get closer, but it was as if there was a film between them, or as if he had lost all sensation. He must have done something to show his frustration, because the Doctor pulled back, watching him with the look of a confused child, and the ice started cracking. He was snatched from the Doctor’s grip as he fell.

The cold water knocked the air out of him.

‘Take your clothes off,’ the Doctor said anxiously. He was crouching at the very edge of the ice; Alan wanted to tell him to get back, if it cracked more. ‘You’ll drown, Alan, your clothes will drag you down under the ice, and they’re already too heavy for me to help you up.’

Alan obeyed, his cold fingers clumsy. He let his coat fall to the bottom, pulled jumper and shirt and vest off and managed to kick off his shoes and trousers. ‘Give me your hand!’ the Doctor shouted, as if the ice was screaming and he needed to make himself heard over it. ‘Alan - your hand!’

But Alan could not move. His hands were cold, so cold that he could not feel them, but if he gave him his hand and he helped him up, he would see what they had done to him... He could not let him know...

‘Alan! Quickly!’ the Doctor shouted as tears froze in his eyelashes. But there was no time. The current took hold of him and pulled him down, the cold water obscuring the Doctor’s desperate face.

***

Psychoanalysts must all be trained in reading bad handwriting, Alan reflected. He could barely make sense of his own scrawl in the dream-book, but Doctor Greenbaum never seemed to struggle with the entries, but read them quietly as his patient lay on the couch and tried not to feel intimidated.

‘The dream about winter in Cambridge,’ Doctor Greenbaum said slowly. His way of speaking, softened by his German accent, was slow and measured, the voice of a man more used to listening than talking.

‘Absolutely ridiculous,’ Alan commented. ‘The Cam has never frozen over like that - never in my day. Once the edges froze, but it was very thin...’

‘Illogical, not ridiculous,’ the psychoanalyst said. ‘It only seems like nonsense to you because you do not wish to see the meaning of the dream.’ He was silent a long while, probably waiting for Alan to speak. When he did not, he asked: ‘The man in the dream...’ This time, Alan did not answer very consciously. ‘“D-r”?’ Greenbaum said slowly, as if thinking he needed reminding.

‘I don’t want to...’ he said, but broke off.

‘Why do you not want to talk about it?’ he persisted. There was yet another silence, until Greenbaum said softly: ‘The purpose of these sessions are after all talking. I am not here to judge you, Alan. I do not. Equally, I never take offense.’

‘It’s not you,’ Alan said emphatically, rather disturbed by the thought that Greenbaum might have thought that he was dreaming about kissing his analyst. Then again, it probably meant something, and he knew that Greenbaum indeed did not take offense. ‘A friend,’ he said at last. ‘A.... lover. The Doctor.’ The scratching of a pen was heard, then the soft question:

‘Still raw?’ Although it was simply an inquiry into why the Doctor had not been mentioned before, there was pathos in his voice.

‘I haven’t seen him for more than two years,’ Alan sighed, and took to staring at the ceiling. He tightened the grip around his own arms, a gesture of cold which had been reinterpreted, as if it would defend him from the world. ‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t even know if he is alive.’ He paused, as if waiting for an answer, then he realised that no answer would be given, and he continued speaking, trying not to constrain his thoughts. ‘I don’t know what went wrong... if it was my fault or his. He simply disappeared.’ He started to forget his surroundings, and the thought of the Doctor moved to the front of his mind. ‘He was extraordinary. I’ve never met anyone with such a sharp mind, before or since. He saved my life once, during the war... I still don’t know quite how it happened.’ He fell silent, and Greenbaum asked:

‘Who does he remind you of?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alan said, always the initial answer to such questions. ‘In a way... Chris. There was - is - something youthful about him. Something... innocent. And then again, a darkness... I can’t explain it. He was a very difficult man to understand. There were... undiscovered depths. Unknowable things.’ His mind moved to the first letter the Doctor had sent him, all those years ago. ‘He called me his “kindred spirit”... A “permanent exile.” One more true than the other, I guess.’ He fell silent, feeling embittered. They had been silent for several minutes when Greenbaum spoke.

‘It is common to feel attraction towards people we see ourselves in, who reflect certain traits of ourselves...’

‘He was brighter than me,’ Alan admitted. ‘But he... understood.’

‘Mathematics?’ Greenbaum asked. ‘Or... something more profound?’

‘He had no context. For himself, I mean,’ he said. ‘In his own way, he did understand. He had a kind of insight... But I never understood him. It was like... axioms being tested blind. All I know is that whatever exile he suffered... it was worse than mine.’

‘In the dream... why did you not take his hand?’

‘I was cold...’ He broke off, realising he was being too rational again. ‘I was ashamed,’ he admitted. There was an unspoken question, but it took a little while for him to answer it. ‘There was never any shame between us. Other things, perhaps... misunderstandings, more than I realised at the time, and things went wrong... But it was never because of shame.’ The silence prompted him to continue. ‘I suppose that _they_ want me to feel shame. That’s why they put me through that treatment. It still doesn’t change anything.’ And then he remembered what he had remembered too many times since the trial. ‘He betrayed me,’ he said outright. ‘He said he was going to be there, when I needed him, and he wasn’t. I keep imagining that I see him in the streets, but...’ He trailed off, and it was like a door closed on the thoughts of the Doctor, shielding him from them. Despite that he was not supposed to attempt to influence his train of thought, now he nudged it away from that door, and into the dim land of childhood. Even the secrets hidden there felt safe in comparison to the storm enveloping the Doctor.

When the session ended, the two men seemed to go through a metamorphosis. Shedding the semblances of doctor and patient, they were took on the roles of polite friends. While their professional relationship meant that Alan had to give him access to the darkest places of his mind, outside those roles they were at a comfortable distance. As acquaintances, they were not trapped by the optical constraint of the psychoanalyst’s couch. Greenbaum left his armchair and Alan sat up.

‘You still do not quite trust me,’ he observed as he lit his pipe and offered Alan a match for his cigarette.

‘I do trust you,’ Alan said, but Greenbaum smiled and sat down opposite him, tapping his temple.

‘There’s a difference between trust and _trust_ ,’ he said lightly and puffed on his pipe. He was a little younger than Alan, but not much, and struck a rather dashing figure in his tweed and rim-horned glasses. There was something familiar about him, which made him easy to confide in, but only in his professional role. The fact that they were more distant when out of session was a safety in itself; it was a manifestation of that Greenbaum kept what he told him locked up. It did not touch him as a person, as if only a part of him really knew.

Often Alan would be reluctant to continue speaking about something they had discussed during the session, but he was still thinking about the Doctor.

‘Can I ask something?’ he said. Greenbaum inclined his head.

‘Naturally.’

‘About the Doctor,’ he explained. ‘He had lost his memory. He could remember back to a certain point, but before that, he had no memories. He didn’t know his name, where he was from, who his parents were, who he _was_...’ He trailed off, and looked at the psychoanalyst questioningly. Greenbaum seemed to think it through.

‘Such cases are quite uncommon, but not unheard of. Retrograde amnesia is often a defense mechanism. It is an extreme way of dealing with traumatic experiences, which we cannot bear to face.’

‘What can be so awful that you would want to remember it?’ Alan asked.

‘Some experiences are so overpowering that they would tear apart a person from the inside,’ Greenbaum said, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘To stop that, the mind has to do something, and burying those memories is the last of a number of ways to deal with the situation. If that means suppressing one’s very identity... when it is a question of survival, there is no price too great.’

‘What might have happened to him?’ Greenbaum shrugged.

‘Who can say? Considering I have never met your friend, I cannot tell - even if I did, it would probably not be evident. The only thing which is beyond doubt is that it must have been something so deeply disturbing that repressing those memories was the only option open to him. Perhaps he witnessed something horrible, or was subject to it.’ He paused and added: ‘Or, for that matter, committed it.’ The idea was chilling. Alan knew that the Doctor had killed people. There was Elgar - if Elgar was a person in any real sense - and perhaps others. He remembered what he had said in Dresden. _I’ve killed so many people. But never like this, never without a cause._ Why had he never reflected on that the man he loved was a killer? But so were many, many men, because of the war. Indirectly he had killed people by breaking the Naval code. How many U-boats had been sunk because of the machines he built? How many young men had been dragged into the deep, or frozen to death in the cold Atlantic? Even when he had failed, it had cost lives, when Allied convoys had been sunk.

While Alan thought about this, Greenbaum got to his feet and crossed to the window. Alan followed him with his eyes, taking in his thoughtful face. Perhaps, he reflected, there were things he wanted to forget too. It could not be easy to have people pour their hearts out at you every day, even if you did it for a living. And what horrors may he himself carry? Alan had never fond a way to ask - indeed, had pointedly not thought of a way to ask - whether anyone from Greenbaum’s family had died in the German camps. He did not want to know, worried that it might be too close for comfort. Similarly, he had never asked Bob, the Jewish refugee whose education he had paid for at the beginning of the war, what had happened to his mother, left in Vienna. He did not think himself heartless, but perhaps pushing it away made him that. And then suddenly his thoughts were back with the Doctor, because he suddenly realised that the way Bob’s eyes had looked that day in 1939 when he had met him at the train-station was so much like the Doctor’s eyes in Dresden, when he had realised that the Strangers had left. They had both been uprooted and alone. Yet again he remembered the way the Doctor had called himself a“permanent exile”.

His thoughts were interrupted by that Greenbaum spoke.

‘You should have mentioned him before. Without complete honesty, I may not be able to help you...’

‘Yes, complete honesty,’ Alan agreed. ‘But not at the cost of national security.’ Greenbaum turned around and smiled laconically.

‘Of course,’ he said, but he sounded unconvinced. ‘However, your inner life is not covered by the Official Secrets Act.’

Alan left soon afterwards; it seemed like they could not act out the parts of friends now. As he went homewards, he thought about the Doctor. He wondered where he was; despite his worry, he had not been able to imagine that anything had befallen him. He would find his way out of danger, even (he hoped) if the danger came from within. But that conviction that the Doctor was alive made his absence worse. How could he just have left? There had been nothing - no phone-call, no letter, not even a telegram - for over two years. For not the first time, Alan wondered what he would do if he turned the corner and saw the Doctor there. Would he embrace him? Would he strike him? And how would the Doctor react? For a moment, he imagined a situation where the Doctor did not recognise him, but he pushed the unpleasant thought aside. He was not certain about how he would react, especially as the shame which had featured in the dream was real enough. He did not want the Doctor to see him like this. They called the gynaecomastia and the way he had grown weaker side-effects, but he guessed it was part of their plans. It was as if they thought that he did not conform to either sex properly, so they attempted to push him one way or the other - either turn him into a real man or into a woman. He remembered a Latin poem he had once read at school about a man who in a fit of religious frenzy took a set of sharp flints to himself and cut off his manhood, turning him into a woman. Hormone injections was certainly less barbaric, and they had not lead to anything so dramatic, but they still made a difference. He was sure that the doctors and the lawyers would be pleased by the humiliation it caused him. If rendering him impotent was not enough, then making his body unappealing would do the trick.

Did that mean that, if the Doctor turned up again, eager for his company, he would reject him? Even if the effects of the treatment had started to wear off, some were still evident. The worry of failure to perform was ever-present. Besides, the judge had made him promise not to, as he had put it, “commit any such acts” again, and despite what he felt about the state of the law, Alan found breaking that or any promise difficult. When he grew too lonely, he would go abroad, where British law did not apply. It was odd, he reflected. Before this he had never seen any reason to keep his love-life separate from the rest of his life. The dichotomy had been between secret and public. Now he was barred from anything secret; the trial had cost him his security clearance. Even if he was not particularly sorry to be rid of the GCHQ work, thinking about it made him nervous. He crossed his arms, grabbing hold of his shoulders. It was a nervous habit he had not had before the trial, a small sign of the way it had changed him. It was something he did hoping it would divert attention from what he tried to hide anyway, but jumpers only went so far.

He was torn from his thoughts by something whizzing past his ear. He turned sharply and spotted three boys, no older than ten, who laughed at his reaction. One of them picked up another pebble and threw it at him. He raised his arm to avert it, but it struck him on the head.

‘Do your mothers know what you get up to, you snotty-nosed brats?’ he shouted at them. Their faces fell and they turned and ran off. Alan felt like thinking up more abuse to hurl at them, but he restrained himself. If the children’s parents heard, they would not take kindly to it. Had their boys thrown stones at anyone else, they would be in for a scolding, but Alan was fairly sure that they would turn a blind eye in his case, if not actively encourage them.

Everyone in Wilmslow knew, of course. There had been an article about the trial at the time, with his name and picture in. The tobacconist had made it quite clear that he was not welcome, and he could buy his cigarettes somewhere else. The grocer still tolerated him, but did not answer any of the common pleasantries. Some people on the street where he lived who had previously greeted him suddenly started acting as if he were thin air. Occasionally he would hear people whisper about him, confirming to each other that, yes, that was _him_ , the university lecturer who had seduced some young man of no means and had been taken to trial over it, and served him right. Being publicly known as a queer should not bother him; there had never been an secrecy about his orientation before. Then again, Wilmslow was not Cambridge; not even the university in Manchester. Previously, people he liked were told, and if they took offense they would fall in his estimation. Now, those who were sympathetic towards him were a vanishing minority. He had always known that the public had a tendency to stupid convictions, but the past year had made him realise that his sexuality was something that the majority of people would not only be bothered by, but take active offense at the mention of.

He stopped in his stride, weighed down by such thoughts. Why did he not rage against them when they refused to serve him in the pub or when a friendly greeting would be answered by an outraged look and a quickening of the step? When he was young, he would have confronted them all to show them how wrong they were. Now... He still shouted at the boys who threw stones at him, and after the trial he had written to his MP complaining on the state of the law, but there was something about his attempts which felt half-hearted. He suddenly realised what he had thought, and laughed melancholically.

‘“Young”,’ he murmured. Was that what had happened the last year? He had grown old. Perhaps turning forty had had a bigger impact than he had thought. Even if he did not look his age, he felt it. As it started raining, he wondered if he was becoming jaded.

It was September, and the autumn was approaching. Soon his habit of wrapping his arms around himself would not look out of place, but could be blamed on the cold. At the same time, he felt his mind slowly going colder.

***

As winter came, Alan remembered thinking that the medicine would change his mind, rather than his body. He had thought at first that he was wrong, and he felt that he was still the same, but something was different. It had not taken away his ability to love. Rather it had made it more acute, through depriving him of any physical way of expressing it. But it had stirred up something, which had been there since he was a boy. He could not put a name to it, and describing it was difficult. It was a grating worry, a deep-set melancholia which ate away at him. It had been the realisation that that old hopelessness was setting in again which had finally made him give up and consult a psychoanalyst. He had made sure to state when he started the sessions with Greenbaum that whatever society at large claimed, he did not think his sexuality was not an illness, and he did not want to be cured. Greenbaum had accepted that, sharing his view on the subject, but as the months went by, he became aware that there was something wrong, not in the people he was attracted to, but the way he interacted with them. From where did this habit of obsession come? Something must have gone awry, somewhere in his early years, and he started despairing of identifying that moment. He felt himself giving in to old ways. The photograph of the Doctor which Robin had sent him was moved from the drawer to the desk itself, leaning against the frame which held the picture of Chris his mother had sent him just after the boy’s death. He took out the equation the Doctor had left behind, and worked on it in the evenings, checking and double-checking his fair-copy against the photographs. He knew that it was a hopeless project, but he was reluctant to put it aside, even if he knew that it was having a bad effect on him. Come January, he had stopped shouting back at the boys who threw stones at him, and would not even quicken his pace when they ran after him and jeered. He liked to think that he bore it stoically, but he knew that in reality, he was drawing into himself, having grown too used to the abuse to do anything about it. He knew he had to do something more radical about it than psychoanalysis. The worry was chipping away at his soul, dulling his mind until staring at that incomplete equation was all he could do.

It was not until spring when he realised what had to be done. He started making the arrangements, and although they took longer than he had wanted, the prospect of resolving it all lightened his mood. He felt now that he needed to rid himself of the Doctor if he wanted to get past the state of mind he had been increasingly caught in since the trial. It was now over three years since the Doctor’s disappearance, and still he kept thinking about him. He needed to put the events leading up Dresden and the following affair behind him, so that he could start again. The prize to pay if that was not done would be his sanity, perhaps something even greater.

In May, the arrangements were finally in place. He had persuaded an old friend to give him access to a Delilah machine, a device o the kind Alan had constructed during the last years of the war. The fact that he had been stripped of his security clearance caused him problems, but finally they managed to arrange for him to use the machine one evening. Alan insisted on rigging up the equipment himself; having built it, he knew it well, and he wanted to be alone when doing this. Carefully, he rigged up a tape-recorder to the machine and set the key. It would repeat every seven minutes, so he would have to pause and reset it manually.

It was not until he sat down and prepared to start the machine when he asked himself what on earth he was doing. What was the purpose of this? What did he really want with it? Pushing it aside, he started the machine and wet his lips apprehensively. The valves ticked, and realising that they were only sampling silence, he forced himself to speak.

‘The first question is,’ he started, barely whispering. ‘Am I speaking to anyone? ...Can anybody hear and understand this?’ Speaking into the microphone made him very self-conscious, so in order to calm himself, he described the form of the machine, and then discussed the safety implications. His thoughts moved onto the Doctor, as they so often did, and he spoke of him, in a hushed and rushed voice. His words were picked up and encrypted by the machine, recording it onto the tape in a mangled form which could not be made sense of without the same machine and the same key. He made himself think aloud, as if the enciphering mechanism was there to analyse his inner feelings and seek to pinpoint the reason for his distress. Over the first few minutes, the real reason for the recording suddenly became clear to him. It had nothing to do with expelling the Doctor.

‘Have I unconsciously decided that the Doctor will hear my words, naked and decoded?’ he asked the microphone. ‘Is this an elaborate charade - not a telling of what needs to be told, but only a message from me to the Doctor? But what could I possibly say to him now?’ He paused, and when he spoke again he found his voice broken. ‘Goodbye?

‘Yes, that’s the right thing to say,’ he concluded. ‘If it’s only for him.’ He took a deep breath and reached for the off-switch of the machine. ‘Goodbye, Doctor.’ But he could not switch it off; it was not enough. He had to tell the story.

So he started from the beginning, as he knew it. It was not the beginning of the story of the Strangers, but the beginning of the story of him and the Doctor, that bright winter day in Oxford when he had seen the man for the first time. What had happened if he had not got off his bike and stopped to speak to him? How different would his life be?

He did not leave anything out, but strove for an honesty which put his performance on the psychoanalytical couch to shame. The things he did not elaborate were connected to the work at Bletchley, although he gave more away than he should. What he did not attempt to censure was the events which he had been part of those late days in the war, or his attraction to the Doctor. He remembered every turn of that early infatuation, every uncertainty about the Doctor’s loyalties and intentions. When the key started repeating itself, he reset it without having to think about it. He did not even bother to record what the settings were; this was not a tape which was to ever be listened to. The intended recipient would be able to decipher it without any help from him. He described the events leading up to the flight to Paris, their escapades in the French capital and his worry about the Doctor. When he spoke of it, he remembered with sudden vividness the weight of the razor in his hand when that first suicidal impulse had struck him, a thought which he had not grown unused to over the past year.

When he spoke of the Doctor appearing on the train, he heard his raw voice becoming hawse with oncoming tears.

‘Here in the carriage was the safe fascination of mechanical things, the solid reality of a future in which children grow up just like their parents. Outside in the passageway was the unsafe fascination of love, the liquid reality of a future where people did stupid things because the rules changed all the time and you had to feel your way through life. A reality that I could barely comprehend and that terrified me above any feeling of excitement.’ _And still you chose it_ , he thought to himself as he described how he told of finding the Doctor and telling him he would come with him to Dresden. If he had not, the outcome would probably be much like if he had not stopped when seeing the Doctor speaking to the griffin. The Doctor would have become a small, albeit exciting episode in his life, which would fade from his memory as so odd that it was possibly not quite true. He was suddenly quite certain that that moment, which had lead to everything which had happened between him and the Doctor, despite everything was the happiest he had experienced.

‘I have known nothing better, before or since,’ he admitted, ‘than standing on that swaying train with the Doctor, with the grey French fields passing outside, and the murder of war ahead.’ He took a deep breath to steady his voice, but before he could continue his narrative, he heard a dull _click_ , followed by a familiar hissing. The machine was still running, but the spool was spinning around its peg, the tape tapping against the side of the tape recorder.

‘It didn’t let me finish,’ he said out loud. The machine picked up his words, but they were not recorded anywhere, only dispersed into thin air. He had thought that if he made this recording, he could leave these events behind and find some way to live his life. Staring at the full role of tape, spinning mindlessly around and around and around, he realised that he had been wrong. In that repeated movement, he saw his fate with sudden clarity. Like the tape had run out before the end of his story, even before the beginning had been told properly, his life was reaching its end. It was only a matter of time now before it would become too much to bear, and he would be driven to complete what he had considered already on the day of leaving Paris in 1945. Still listening to the hiss of the trailing tape and the subtle sounds of the enciphering machine, he rested his face in his hands and wept.

***

They say that after Oliver Cromwell’s body had been exhumed and, despite it being dead already, hanged and quartered, a faithful roundhead stole his head, which had been cut off as a deterrent to other rebels. He took it to Cromwell’s Cambridge college, where it was buried somewhere in the grounds. Where was known only by the oldest fellow, who kept the secret until he was dying, when the fellow directly his junior would be called to his bedside and he would tell him and only him where was the last resting-place of the head of Cromwell. It was said that this knowledge had survived to this day, whispered by dying men to their next in line.

It was this story Alan was contemplating when he got on the train to Oxford a few weeks after the recording. The cardboard box he carried under his arm did not contain a skull, but something more precious. The best place to hide something secret was in a college, and he intended to pick a significant spot for leaving it.

Doctor Kelly, who had been in Naval ciphers at Bletchley during the War, was waiting for him at the gates of S:t John’s when he arrived.

‘Wonderful to see you, old chap,’ the dignified old academic said and shook his hand warmly. ‘How are you? You don’t look too well, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Alan said quickly, but knew that he neither looked it or was it. These days, he was sallow-skinned and heavy-eyed, from neglect and insomnia, and his insistence of wearing thick jumpers even in the summer heat must add to the impression of an ill man. He wondered if he would have time to start going grey.

Doctor Kelly showed him to his room, and Alan followed, clutching the tape protectively to his chest. He declined the tea offered to him, and when they settled down, it was obvious that his host was uneasy.

‘So... with what did you wanted my help?’ he asked hesitantly. Alan relinquished the narrow box from his grip and put it on the table between them. Kelly picked it up.

‘What is this?’

‘A tape,’ he explained. ‘There’d be no point with trying to play it. It’s encrypted.’ Kelly put it down, as if it had burnt him.

‘Prof, if this is anything classified, I cannot...’

‘It isn’t,’ Alan said emphatically. ‘It has nothing to do with anything which happened during the war. Well, not directly.’ When he still looked uncertain, he explained: ‘Look, all I want you to do is to keep it safe until the person who it’s intended for comes to collect it.’

‘That does nothing to calm me,’ Kelly admitted.

‘Badly phrased,’ he sighed. ‘The point is that it’s... intended for someone, but he doesn’t know it. I won’t be able to give it to him. I need someone I can trust to do it for me.’

‘Why me?’ Kelly asked. ‘Not that I am not flattered, but I have not spoken to you since the end of the war - we were never close...’

‘I think he’ll come here,’ Alan explained.

‘Who is this “he”?’

‘He’s called the Doctor,’ he said and pulled the photograph taken on VE-Day out of his pocket. It was with reluctance he handed it over. ‘He’s the man with the cat.’ Kelly looked at it for a while, and observed:

‘It isn’t a very good photograph,’ he observed. ‘I’m not certain I’d recognise him.’

‘Ask him what the name of the griffin in the garden is called,’ Alan said and rose. Kelly looked at him, confused. ‘Timothy,’ he added and smiled, despite himself. He turned to leave, but Kelly stopped him.

‘Wait! When will this man come?’ He turned back and shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But eventually, I’m sure. Hand the tape and the instructions to someone else if he doesn’t turn up before you retire, will you?’ With a grateful nod, he left, and made his way out of the college, pointedly not going the way by Timothy the Griffin.

He made his way towards the Thames, digging his hand into his pocket. They met the bundle of paper he had put there before leaving. As he walked, he took them out and started looking through them. _My dear Turing - a strong sense that you were a kindred spirit - yours in the hope of friendship - I will try to explain myself; or at least to explain something - our paths will cross again - my dearest Alan - with hope of a swift reunion - tuus - yours affectionately..._ Every hint at intimacy, every endearment, every affectionate term seemed to burn him. Nevertheless, he gripped the letters so hard that his fingers almost broke through the paper.

He reached a bridge, where he stopped and took out the file which had been crammed into his other pocket. Letting the file fall to the ground, he took the bundle of papers it had contained and for the last time read through his notes and looked at the photographs of the Doctor’s equation. Then, refusing to dwell any longer on it, he leaned over the railing and flung them into the air. They spread into a white cloud, expanding and then drifting down to the water, where they started covering the surface of the water. Alan retrieved the letters again. While he had been happy to fling his work on the equation whole, he did not want to do the same with the letters. Purposefully, he started tearing them to shreds. When the note-paper was reduced to strips of paper, he let go of them, and they sprayed the already paper-covered water like badly shaped confetti. He lingered by the railing, and suddenly the urge to jump after them struck him. It felt like something was physically pulling him towards the water, calling him to follow the torn letters.

Terrified, he stumbled backwards, away from the edge. He was too agitated to notice where he was going, and backed straight into a passing couple. As he turned to look at them, he was still not aware of how the woman stared at him, aghast, and how her husband shouted at him for agitating her. Not bothering to apologise, he set off at a run, until he found a telephone box. His hands shook as he found some coins in a pocket, and his voice sounded thin and forced when he spoke to the operator. The wait after being directed stretched, and he had to lean against the wall, not quite trusting his legs to keep him upright. His heart was racing in his chest, and his head was spinning with what had happened. He had been aware of it for weeks, knowing that sooner or later, it would happen, but now it was raw and terrifying in a way he had not anticipated. _I want to kill myself,_ he thought. _I almost jumped off a bridge. I want to kill myself..._

The receiver gave a small click, and a woman’s voice said:

‘Greenbaum. Hello?’

‘I need to talk to Doctor Greenbaum,’ Alan said urgently. He heard how his psychoanalyst’s wife hesitated and asked:

‘Who is this?’

‘Alan Turing. Please, I need to talk to him,’ he said, and had to fight to keep his voice from breaking. ‘Is he in?’

‘No, he’s out, I’m afraid,’ the distant voice in the receiver said. ‘Would you like to leave a message...?’ He hung up the receiver before she had finished the sentence. Panting again, he sat down and rested his head in his hands, unable to calm the din inside it. He had not been this terrified since attempting to cross the German border with the Doctor, but even that had been easier. Then there had been a well-defined external threat - the border-guards and the cold - but now, he was afraid of himself. He had never realised what a conflict it would lead to. It was not even a division between impulse and intellect. He could logically see the advantages of suicide, and a deeply irrational part of him wanted it all to be over, but the animal survival instinct struck fear in him, and some deluded bit of his mind still thought there must be hope. He knew that there was none. His life had run out like the tape he had now handed over.

He did not know how long he stayed there, sitting in the telephone box. No one confronted him, perhaps assuming that he was drunk or, more correctly, mad. In a state of confusion so profound that it was not unlike being inebriated he finally made his way to the station. When waiting, he kept staring at the rails, and when the train arrived, he shut his eyes hard, not wanting to contemplate that this, like the bridge, was a missed opportunity. Jumping onto the rails was at least less appealing. He did not want to die violently, and his fear for blood was still present. He did not know what he thought about during the train-ride, if he indeed thought. Blindly he made his way back to his house and into the living room, where he sat down on the couch, his out-door clothes still on, and waited.

At some point in the late evening, after it had gone dark, he came to, as if he had been unconscious for the past hours. He became aware of himself and his surroundings. The room around him was dark, and he felt like he was coming down with flu. His impulse on the bridge now felt distant and disturbing. He was not ready yet. He let himself lie down on the sofa for a little while, and then tried to find something to eat. Despite feeling weak with hunger, all he managed to eat was an apple. He made his way up to his bedroom, and looked over his desk. Chris’ photograph was yet again unaccompanied. The only thing on the desk was a set of cards, which he had written to Robin. They were a set of aphorisms, which he had entitled “messages from the unseen world”, which felt half-ironic. Suddenly words formed in his mind, in the midst of all the confusion, and he put pen to paper and wrote:

 _  
_

> _Hyperboloids of wondrous light  
>  Rolling for aye through space and time  
> Harbour there Waves which somehow  
> Play out God’s holy pantomime. _

_  
_

There was something about the rhyme which reminded him of the Doctor.

‘So much for getting rid of him,’ he said to himself and rubbed his eyes. Now he realised how very tired he was. As he changed into pyjamas and went to bed, he wondered how much of his agitation was actually down to exhaustion. That part of him which still attempted to be hopeful suggested that perhaps he would feel better in the morning. Despite being certain that that would not be the case, he nevertheless turned onto his side and tried to sleep.

***

The next day, he thought that he he had underestimated the good sleep would do him. The day was almost like any other; he even managed to do some work. Everything seemed to go slower and need more effort, as if he had been very ill and had just left his sickbed, but at least the things which he sometimes found overpoweringly difficult, like getting out of bed and getting dressed and cooking, were possible. He felt a little more distant than he had yesterday, when his feelings had been so acute. Now it felt like a premature overreaction.

The day that followed was a bank holiday. For what he could not remember; he only noticed it because the cleaning lady, who usually came in on Mondays, did not turn up. He felt worse again; he knew that he should try to get hold of Greenbaum and tell him about the last few days, but leaving the house seemed like too much of an effort. Besides, what would Greenbaum do if he turned up and told him that he wanted to kill himself? He guessed he would be committed, and if that was the alternative, he would rather wait and see if it passed on its own accord.

As dusk fell, he grew tired even of his own idleness and went upstairs to sit by the window. Watching the sun set was a past-time as good as any. The street outside grew gradually darker. Somewhere in the process, he became aware of a man loitering not far from the house, pacing up and down, as if waiting for someone, smoking away on a broken cigarette. Alan watched him for a while, wondering for what or whom he was waiting. Suddenly he felt very lonely. He wondered when he had talked to another person properly, and concluded that it was probably ten days ago, when Robin had been visiting. For a short moment, he thought of going outside to talk to that man; perhaps he was lonely too. But the thought of approaching a stranger like that was no longer appealing. He barely found speaking to close friends possible - talking to someone he did not know would not work.

The watching-place at the window suddenly felt oddly infected, and he left it and made his way down to the kitchen. Once again, his attention was drawn to the bowl of apples on the table. They were particularly fine; even when he returned from Oxford, he had enjoyed the taste of them. He wondered where they had grown and if they had been taken far before ending up at the grocer’s in Wilmslow. During the war, getting hold of apples had been almost impossible. Along with chocolate, it had been the only food-stuff he had truly missed. Now, feeling almost spoiled for having a bowl of such large, red apples all to himself, he picked one up and turned it in his hands. There was something else in the back of his mind, something to do with apples...

‘ _Dip the apple in the brew, let the sleeping death seep through_ ,’ he murmured to himself, remembering suddenly the scene from Snow White where the potion drips from the blackened apple, taking the shape of a skull. With sudden clarity, he recalled going to see the film in late 1938. It was the same week as he had been recruited by the Foreign Office. He had been happy, childishly so, and the film had only lifted his spirits further. He had enjoyed saying that quote to people to see how they reacted. It felt like a lifetime ago; he could not imagine being so cheerful. Turning the apple in his hands, he thought of what the fruit represented. The golden apples of the Hesperides was a prize to be captured by a hero. The forbidden fruit of Eden, if not always an apple, was a symbol of desire and disobedience. He held up the apple in front of his face, contemplating the idea of a Tree of Knowledge. The desire an apple symbolised was not only banned sexual pleasure, but also the search of knowledge, attempts to push through the veil of reality to an explanation which gave it sense. Was that what society had punished him for - picking the fruit of the tree of knowledge? Perhaps they had been equally horrified at his science, bringing mathematics into the physical world in an attempt to improve it, as at how he expressed love. Still contemplating this, he left the kitchen and once again climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing, he paused and looked from the apple to the doors in front of him. The door to the bedroom and the door to the laboratory seemed to present themselves as a choice. They seemed to pose a question to him, whether he was ready to go on.

He cupped his hands around the apple, realising suddenly that he was not afraid anymore. This was the way it should be done. He took the door to the laboratory.

He had left his electrolysis equipment out of the table since last time, and the jar of cyanide was within reach. It took some thought to decide how to apply it; the apple was too big to fit into the jar, and if the stalk broke he would be unable to retrieve the fruit. He did not want to smear it on with his fingers, reluctant to breathe it in accidentally. Finally he decided to pour some on a plate and simply roll the apple in the thick liquid. The cyanide formed a glistening film over the red skin. It was surprisingly beautiful; Alan did not know when he had found anything beautiful for a long time. Careful not to drop it, he made his way into the bedroom, and after a moment of hesitation, he lay down on the bed. He did not want to fall when the poison set in; already lying down would make it a little more dignified. For a long moment, he stared at the apple, and then, closing his eyes, he bit into it.

After two bites, he let it fall and leaned back. _So, this is it,_ he thought, wishing that his thoughts during his last moments would be more original. He wondered how much time he had - probably a few minutes until he lost consciousness. The layer of cyanide had not been very thick, but he could not tell how large the dose had been. The bitterness of the poison mingled with the sweet taste of the apple, and suddenly he felt quite sick. It would not be pleasant until he lost consciousness, but it would be quick.

It seemed like his brain was already being affected, because suddenly he thought there were footsteps on the stairs. It must have been a hallucination caused by the poison - things like that happened when your nervous system started closing down...

But it was not a hallucination that the door opened, and the footsteps grew closer. The room was dark, perhaps darker than it had been a little while before, and Alan could not see who the intruder was. All he knew was that he must be real, because this was too intricate for a dying brain to make up. He could feel the shift in the mattress as he sat down and a hand stroking his hair.

‘Oh, Alan,’ a melodic tenor voice said. ‘How did it come to this?’ His answer was simply a surprised, guttural noise, and he was suddenly afraid that he could not speak anymore. When he tried again, his voice obeyed.

‘Doctor...’

‘I’m here,’ he said and bent closer, so that he could see him. His face was unchanged, and Alan could not help but laugh. Very suddenly, the Doctor embraced him, lifting his shoulders from the bed.

‘Too late, I’m afraid,’ he admitted. His voice was no louder than a whisper, but his lips almost touched the Doctor’s ear. The Doctor pulled back and kissed his forehead, and when he seemed about to kiss his lips, he shook his head, making it hurt worse than it already did. ‘Don’t - I’ve taken cyanide...’ He put him down again with the tenderness one replaces a child in its cot, and took his hands. ‘There may be poison on my fingers...’

‘It’s alright, Alan, it’s all alright,’ he said urgently. ‘I tried to make it better. I did so badly the first time - I thought that if I went back, I could make you a little happier, but it still lead to the same thing...’

‘I left you something,’ Alan said. Breathing started to feel difficult.

‘I know, I know,’ the Doctor said, leaning over him again and kissing his forehead. ‘I’ve found it. I will find it.’

‘But I threw away the equation...’

‘Coordinates,’ he explained. ‘But I can’t remember to where.’

‘I thought I was going to die alone,’ Alan admitted, and then suddenly laughed. ‘Was this what you meant, all those years ago?’

‘What do you mean?’ the Doctor said, frowning.

‘You said that you’d be there when I needed you,’ Alan said, voice choked. ‘I thought you meant the trial - I thought you meant those awful years, but this was what you meant, wasn’t it?’ The Doctor was silent, even if his grip around his hands seemed to be growing stronger, but he was losing sensation in his limbs, so he didn’t know for sure. He wished the Doctor would say something, because he felt now that time was running out.

‘When did I say that?’ the Doctor asked. When Alan did not answer at once, struggling to remember and to speak, he leant over him and said: ‘It’s important, Alan. When did I say it?’

‘’51,’ he answered. ‘June...’

‘But...’ the Doctor said, but fell silent, and even through the darkness, Alan could see joyous realisation spread across his face. ‘Oh, Alan,’ he whispered and rested their cheeks together. ‘There might be hope for us after all.’

Alan breathed in and asked:

‘Is there?’

The light went out.


End file.
